


Port and Stars

by Ramona (miss_heathen)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1910s, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, RMS Titanic, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Sad Ending, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Virginity, like hella sad, super sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_heathen/pseuds/Ramona
Summary: A UsUk Titanic AU, where Arthur is the son of an oil tycoon heading to New York to meet with his father and Alfred is a destitute engine worker on the Titanic. They meet up when Arthur stays behind at the bar at night, and Alfred sneaks in for a drink, thinking it's empty. They hit it off, and, well...you know how the story goes.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 46





	1. Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Kirkland, son of George Kirkland, the oil magnate, begins to board the RMS Titanic when his pessimistic thoughts are interrupted by an exceptionally attractive dockworker, and he can't get those eyes out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my first fic. Well, a depressing, angsty story sure is a great way to start off my profile here. This chapter is an introduction to the story and to Arthur as a character, where he spots a certain somebody loading up the Titanic...Hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> P.S. I know some of you get antsy, so smut is mentioned in chapter 4, full-on chapter 5, and (possibly) chapter 7 (haven't gotten there lol). Happy reading!

How dull. He’d been on much better ships than this one, much more luxurious ones. His father must have wanted to see him quite badly to have booked him a ticket on this poor ship. It was said to be unsinkable, which he desperately hoped was true. After all, he would expect every ship to not sink. However, was it dubbed the fanciest ship? No, it was not.

Arthur Kirkland got out his documents from his coat pocket in preparation to show it to the ticket inspector, but as he stood in line, something caught his eye. Rather, somebody.

He was about to put a cigarette to his lips, but he stopped comically fast once a certain tuft of blond hair seemed to reflect light right into Arthur’s vision. He turned his head to see a dockworker, much too young to be doing such work, hoisting baggage into the ship. He used obviously well-trained biceps to lift the heavy suitcases, balancing them on his tanned chest that poked through the holes in his dirtied uniform, before handing them off to the next dockworker, who looked twenty years his senior. The man—rather, teen— should still be in school, no? It truly puzzled the Brit until he remembered not everybody was like him.

Not everybody was lucky enough in life to be the son of an oil magnate and be afforded the luxury to attend school through university. But every time Arthur went out into the real world, stuck his nose in the general public’s habitat, it shriveled up at the filth and poverty beneath him. He couldn’t believe the disparity between him having three personal horses and others scrounging around for scraps of bread. It only added to the emptiness he felt inside, the hole of guilt in his stomach that seemed to expand with every year he drifted by in life until he inherited his father’s empire.

Now, as he stared at the blond, his body and hair carrying a light sheen of sweat from the combination of the physical exercise and the warming temperatures, Arthur wasn’t sure whether he wanted to go on this ship at all. He could run away now, begin a life of his own instead of living in the shadow of his father’s reputation, living a life that wasn’t his.

“Ticket, please.”

The voice ripped Arthur out of his delusions, and he shook his head to rid himself of those foolish daydreams that popped up now and then. He took one last look at the young blond, who was now laughing with the other dockworkers and taking a swig of water from a glass bottle. As if he could feel those green eyes on him, his head turned, his eyes searching the high-class crowd until he settled on Arthur, blinking a few times as if in disbelief as his grin faded into a slightly agape mouth.

Oh. Oh, goodness. Was it possible to have eyes so blue? Even the ocean was darker than those eyes, which shone sapphire in the afternoon sunlight. The ocean, which was revered for its beauty, looked helplessly dreary compared to those eyes. Arthur nearly reached for the camera in his suitcase when he remembered that he should be reaching for his ticket like a normal person.

He reluctantly broke eye contact with the dockworker, who seemed to continue to stare at him from what Arthur could see in his peripheral vision. Arthur’s eyes then settled on the ticket inspector, who was a much blander sight to behold than the dockworker. Arthur sighed and pulled out the ticket, having it stamped quickly and being waved into the ship.

“Welcome to the RMS _Titanic_. Enjoy your trip.”

It was nothing more than a silly crush. Yes, nothing more, and hopefully a lot less than what he was feeling in his chest. He stepped onto the ship, not sparing another glance at the man in fear of his chest imploding from the desire to stare at him all day, to have those blue eyes stare back at him and to see that charming grin shine in his direction and not anywhere else. As he stepped inside, he was greeted by a grand interior: polished hardwood floors, regal gold crown moulding etched with spirals and leaves and waves, multiple layered chandeliers hanging proudly from the high ceilings that looked down on Arthur from what seemed like kilometers above. Perhaps...this ship would not be too horrible. It was only for five days, after all. It’d be an adequate stay for five days.

“Arthur Kirkland?”

Yet another voice broke Arthur out of yet another daydream. What had gotten into him? He was acting how he behaved as a child, constantly in a world of his own. He lowered his head from marveling at the ceiling, coming face-to-face with a middle-aged woman clad in a mink jacket, a pearl necklace, and sapphire earrings that only made Arthur’s chest hurt even more as they reminded him of the dockworker. However, the horrid fashion sense of this woman was enough to distract Arthur from those thoughts. He nearly laughed at the irony of a wealthy person with no fashion taste, but he bit back the laugh and nodded.

“Yes. And you, madame?” he asked, holding his hand out for the woman’s hand. She giggled and laid her hand in Arthur’s, who subsequently lifted her hand and pressed a chaste kiss on her knuckles before letting her hand drop to her side again.

“Quite the gentleman. The others weren’t wrong about how educated you are, my boy. My name is Mary Easton. I will be making sure you are well-fed and taken care of during this trip, as sent by your father.”

Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was a twenty-five-year-old man. He could take care of himself. But he wasn’t about to say that to this woman, so he obliged with a nod.

“Thank you very much,” he said simply.

“You are very welcome, sir. Now, let’s get you settled in your room, and then meet me in the dining hall where you can socialize with the others.” She dug in her pocket and took out a key, pressing it into his palm. “Follow me, darling.”

Once they reached Arthur’s room, which was on the highest floor, an attendant quickly followed, setting down his briefcases on the floor before leaving. Arthur made sure to give him a tip, which Mary chastised him for.

“It’s his job, no need to waste money on him,” she would say, and Arthur sighed and waved her out of his room under the guise of needing to rest. He really did, but he also wanted Mary out of his room as soon as possible. He needed time to himself to calm down his chest, which had been knotted painfully ever since that dockworker entered his mind. He flopped onto his bed, draping his arm over his eyes to try and zap that image out of his head, but it only intensified it, using the blackness of his vision to project still images of those muscles in motion, his hair slicked back with sweat, his glasses slipping to the end of his nose, and oh, those eyes. What was the point in enjoying this trip on the water if all he could admire was some random stranger’s eyes?

Arthur had felt these urges before, had almost succumbed to them to a loquacious Frenchman, but the potent guilt that racked his body enough to render him ill was enough to set him off that sinful path. Even though his brothers were all married and already had children—therefore taking away the pressure from Arthur’s shoulders to have children of his own—none of them were interested in carrying on the family business. The most they ever did for the company was marketing and low-level business, such as Ciarán’s accounting skills, Alastair’s charm, and Dylan’s oversight. But once they got professions of their own, they left their father’s side. So it was up to Arthur, and he sincerely doubted that other magnates and high-class folk would respect him if it got out that he enjoyed it up the arse. A little crude, but that was how they would view it, and it broke Arthur that that was all he would be seen as. A pansy. All because he couldn’t stop thinking about a man with the most exquisite eyes he’d ever seen.


	2. Midnight Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finally meets the dockworker with the blue eyes when he breaks into the bar, and they hit it off right away, having a long talk about their pasts and futures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Hope you like it! Third will be released sometime before Wednesday.

The dinner was full of thinly-veiled politics, conspicuous bragging, and an uncomfortable amount of silent eating. How dull. Everything around Arthur was dull, especially compared to what had been floating in his mind all day. He had grown quite fond of one of the baronesses, who was quite timid and sweet. She kept offering him Soviet desserts, but she, unfortunately, stopped when the others started to tease them and make insinuating comments about their relationship. Could a man and woman not just be friends? They weren’t even friends, mere acquaintances making the best of a dull situation. She had blue eyes, but not anywhere close to the blue of that dockworker. Damn, he needed to get that man out of his head. He’d never see him again. 

He needed to drown himself in liquor as he usually did to cope with his problems, but he wasn’t so far gone as to get sloppy in front of barons and countesses.

So, he waited until the dining room cleared out and sat at the bar. Mary pleaded for him to come to his room, but he shrugged her off and said he needed to think about work. She sighed and went away, leaving Arthur alone with the bartender. 

“Hard day?” he asked. He had curly brown hair and olive skin with a slight accent. It would have charmed Arthur had his mind not been on another man. When had he turned so lustful? Perhaps he should follow Alastair’s lead and blow off steam at the local brothel.

“Just unbearably dull,” Arthur mumbled, tracing the rim of the whiskey cup with his finger, his nail causing a reverberation through the glass. 

“Well, I doubt a whiskey will make it any better,” the man said, pouring Arthur another glass. Arthur glared up at him, the liquor already having caught up with him and causing his body to warm. He was tipsy, and if his sour attitude was any indication of how he acted when he was actually drunk, the bartender decided not to see it and put back the whiskey bottle. 

“I’m closing up for the night, sir,” he said, leaning back against the bar and staring at Arthur from afar. “Perhaps you should go back to your room.”

“Please, leave me be here for a little longer,” Arthur begged, his previously crabby behavior turning into an imploring one. “You don’t have to be here. You can leave. Just...just leave me here.”

The bartender scoffed and tossed a towel over his shoulder and shrugged. “If I find you on the floor, dead from choking on your vomit, it was not my fault,” he said, throwing the towel in the sink and taking off his apron. “I’ll see you soon, _borracho._ ”

“Hey, you! Hey, what does that mean?” Arthur turned around to try and call out to the man again, but he was gone before Arthur could get his answer. It didn’t sound any good. But what could Arthur do? Sure, he could get him fired. But why would he do that? He was close to plastered. He finished off his whiskey and let his head thud against the counter, letting out a long sigh.

However, the opening of a door caused his head to whip up and turn in the direction of the entrance, expecting Mary or the bartender to come for him. The last thing he expected was to be met with those blue eyes he had been dreaming about—yearning for, desiring—all day. 

“Oh, shit, sorry.”

Even though the first three words Arthur heard from the man contained an unpleasant cuss, the man’s voice was anything but undesirable. It only drew Arthur closer, only made his chest knot tighter until it felt as if his heart was in a steel cage, and the key was being held captive by the other man. He was American. Usually, Arthur found those accents obnoxiously atrocious, but this man, with his low voice with a certain timbre that stroked Arthur’s eardrums so perfectly...he could listen to this man cuss all night. 

“I-I’ll just go. I’m really sorry. Please don’t fire me.” The man was beginning to step out, which caused Arthur to leap to action. He was getting away!

“No, please, wait!” Arthur nearly threw the whiskey glass down and quite literally leaped off his seat, landing on his feet before his tipsiness caught up with him, his knees wobbling so horribly that he fell down. However, before his knees could smash against the hardwood floor, they stopped in midair. It took Arthur a moment to realize he was being held by those same arms he had fantasized about constantly and that he didn’t suddenly gain the ability to levitate. They were strong, warm, smelled of rust and oil. Usually, that would be disgusting and would remind Arthur of his father, but now, at this moment, he couldn’t help but act as if his neck had gone limp so that his nose could get closer to that forearm that had grease spots hidden underneath blond arm hair. 

“Are you alright, guy?” 

The voice was right next to Arthur’s ear. If he didn’t know any better, he thought his ear was vibrating with satisfaction. He finally lifted his head to come centimeters away from the other man’s nose, those eyes shining even though all the lights in the room were off. 

“Y-yes,” was all Arthur could choke out. The man lifted him to his feet, and Arthur couldn’t help but grip the man’s arm, feeling the muscles move and swirl underneath the taut skin under his fingertips. 

“You could’ve taken a nasty fall there,” the American continued, and much to Arthur’s chagrin, dropped his arms back to his sides once he saw that Arthur was stable. “What are you doing alone here?”

If Arthur wasn’t left speechless and if this American was anybody else, Arthur would remind him that he should be asking him that question, not that other way around. Clearly, from his scent and appearance, he worked in the engine rooms. They were not to be seen by anybody above deck and were especially not to touch them with their dirty arms. But Arthur couldn’t care less at that moment. 

“I was just having a drink,” Arthur finally managed to reply, motioning to his glass behind him. “I told the bartender to go home for the night.”

“All alone?” the American emphasized, and Arthur shrugged. He grinned, flashing that charismatic grin that won Arthur over with just one look. “Why, a fancy guy like you having a drink alone? Where’s the fun in that?”

Arthur scoffed and ambled back over to the bar, reaching over it and grabbing a whiskey bottle by the neck and shakily pouring another glass, although he wasn’t shaking because he was tipsy now. “You’d be surprised how lonely the fanciest are.” 

He then came to his senses and turned back to the American, a playful smirk on his lips. The liquor was affecting him, that was clear. His lips usually never moved into a smile except when he was around his kitten, Alice, but it felt good. It felt good to be enjoying the present. 

“Now, I should shoot that question back at you, sir. I would report you for breaking and entering, but you’re lucky you caught me when I’m at my most sentimental. From the look of you,” Arthur took the liberty to give the man another once-over, licking his top lip quickly as he savored the sight, “you work in the engine room, perhaps?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” the man said, slowly approaching the bar and grabbing a whiskey glass for himself, oh so tantalizingly close to Arthur. He could see the scars on the man’s hands and the small strip of chest exposed from his slightly open button-up and the dried sweat on his skin. The American poured a glass for himself and set the bottle down, clinking his glass against Arthur’s before taking a swig. His face contorted into a sour expression, causing Arthur to laugh. 

“Powerful stuff,” the man said, shaking his head before going for more. He looked at Arthur, his gaze turning somewhat fearful. “So, you really won’t report me?”

Arthur let out a laugh. When was the last time he laughed? Really laughed? He let out polite chuckles at the dinner, but that was just politics. No, now he’s laughing with an engine worker, the same worker he had been thinking about all day. 

“No, or else I wouldn’t be here having a drink with you,” he replied. “And it’s only powerful for the young. Is it even legal for you to drink? How old are you, sixteen?”

This couldn’t be real life. It couldn’t be. Yes, it’s the liquor. He didn’t know liquor had hallucinative properties, but it was a welcome addition, especially if it allowed him to talk so smoothly to the most attractive hallucination he’d ever seen. 

The man feigned offense, a hand coming to his chest as his expression morphed into one of pure shock like a dramatic woman in those motion pictures. It got Arthur giggling like a schoolgirl, much to the man’s pleasure, who dissolved into a grin after he got over the shock.

“I am nineteen, for your information,” he replied, finishing off his whiskey with the same sour expression. “Alfred F. Jones.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

The man laughed, his laughter rich as woodland thunder, and Arthur made it his mission to hear it more often. “My name is Alfred F. Jones,” he clarified, holding out his hand. Then he winked, which was enough to knock Arthur out right then and there. “At your service.” 

Arthur just stared. 

“Hey, don’t leave me hanging here.”

Arthur snapped out of his Alfred-induced trance and stuck his hand out, making Alfred do all the work. Alfred shook his hand, their touches lingering before Alfred’s hand dropped to his side. Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. Arthur never wanted to stop saying that name now that he heard it. It oddly suited the man. Arthur didn’t know why, all he knew was that he would say it at any chance he got. 

“Arthur Kirkland,” he replied easily. “Nice to meet you, Alfred F. Jones.”

Alfred beamed. “Likewise, Arthur Kirkland.”

Arthur chuckled and cocked his head. “Now, what is a nineteen-year-old like you doing in such a dangerous place as an engine room?”

A strange look crossed Alfred’s face, and he also cocked his head, although it seemed to be out of confusion. “Money?” He laughed, but it seemed to be out of disbelief. “Why else would I be down there?”

Arthur frowned. “Surely there are better jobs, safer ones. Whatever happened to going to university?”

Alfred frowned even further. Who was this man to tell him to go to university? “University costs money. And working in the engine room earns me money.” He stared at Arthur with narrowed eyes before his gaze fell to his glass. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Mr. Hundred Dollar Bills.”

That pained Arthur. He hadn’t meant to offend Alfred, but all he wanted was the best for him. Working in the engine room of a giant vessel was not the best for him, that was for sure. 

“I apologize,” Arthur whispered. “I...I just met you, and look at me, assuming things about you.” He scoffed and shook his head. He wasn’t used to interacting with people, nevermind people outside of his social circle. He never had friends. He made it clear exactly why every time he tried to make them. 

Alfred had a smile on his face, although Arthur couldn’t determine what kind of smile it was. “It’s alright, Arthur Kirkland. I’ll forgive you since you so graciously let me stay here and have a drink after a long day instead of calling security.” 

A small smile spread on Arthur’s lips, and his gaze fell down to his glass, which was glinting slightly in the moonlight streaming in from the large bay windows. “Do you do this often? I’m surprised you haven’t been caught before.”

Alfred giggled and lifted a hand to his lips. “Sshhh.” 

Bloody hell, this man was attractive. It didn’t help that his spectacles reflected mischievously in the moonlight, albeit much brighter than his whiskey glass. However, as much reflecting light they did, Arthur couldn’t help but notice how broken and dirty and scratched they were. Spectacles were quite expensive…

“You git,” Arthur replied affectionately as he shook his head. “Now, tell me...if you could be in any profession you want, what would you be? I can’t imagine working in the engine room is your dream occupation.”

Alfred thought for a moment before standing up, placing his whiskey glass gently on the counter. He grabbed Arthur’s hand and pulled him off the seat, causing Arthur to stumble and catch himself, sliding the whiskey onto the counter. 

“Follow me,” Alfred said, and Arthur laughed despite the warming on his face at the tight grip on his hand. It seemed as if any touch from the American was enough to set his face ablaze. How embarrassing. 

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he said, but as Alfred pushed open the doors to the balcony, Arthur gasped softly at the frigid air that slapped him in the face. However, once he looked up, he found himself gasping for another reason. The sky...was gorgeous. The skies in London were always polluted with either light or coal pollution, obscuring the skies that Arthur had loved ever since his infancy. But here, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, where there were no humans for hundreds of kilometers, the stars were free to shine with nothing in their way. And the sight was breathtaking.

“I know,” Alfred said, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. Had the American been staring at him all this time? However, that question went unanswered as Alfred looked up to the stars, and Arthur found himself staring at Alfred in response. Alfred motioned to the sky and sighed contentedly. “That’s what I want to be. I want to gaze at the stars all day. I want to study them, to know them, to be close to them. I want to be an astronomer.”

It was a while before any of them spoke, mostly since Arthur was too busy with his own thoughts and studying Alfred like a photograph. He was such a perfect model. And it seemed as if Alfred was right, he truly was enamored with the stars. His eyes hadn’t left them the entire time he spoke. 

“I’m sure you would make quite the astronomer with your passion,” Arthur said softly, walking up next to Alfred and leaning against the railing as he switched his gaze from Alfred to the stars. The only sound other than their voices was the water violently splashing against the side of the ship, the bow cutting through the waves like butter. 

Alfred seemed to like that comment, letting out a loud laugh. “Heh, I guess you’re right. If I go to college, Galileo won’t have anything on my skills. I’ll discover five planets. Hell, ten planets! And they’ll all be named after me.”

This man had such a way with words, a way that made Arthur laugh every single time. He wasn’t used to this much laughter, probably having laughed more in one evening than the past year. His stomach hurt, and he doubled over, his arm holding his waist to try and regulate his breathing. Once he caught his breath, he replied, “That would make planet classification a little difficult, wouldn’t it?”

Alfred immediately shook his head. He had thought about this for a while. When he retired to his bed, wherever that was since that was the most unstable thing in his life, his mind would drift to his future. Sometimes he would get so excited, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He knew exactly what his life would be had he been born to better circumstances. He turned around and sat in a nearby chair, patting the chair next to him to offer it to Arthur. The Brit smiled and followed Alfred’s request, sitting down and angling his knees in the direction of his newfound friend. He didn’t want to miss a single word he said. 

“I would name them Alfred, Jones, F. Jones, Alfred Jones, Alfred 2.0…” Alfred named each planet off on his finger until he named ten of them with varying degrees of using his name. He looked to Arthur proudly, showing him his ten fingers. “See? Not that hard.”

Arthur nodded and shrugged. “You’ve thoroughly impressed me. But, tell me. What got you interested in the stars anyway?”

Alfred looked at Arthur as if he had grown two heads, as if the answer was the most obvious in the world. He outstretched his hand so that he was motioning at the sky. “Who couldn’t be interested in the stars? Look how beautiful they are!” He dropped his arm and sat back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. “To be honest, I was kind of forced to like them. I lived on the streets for a good part of my life. My parents tried their best, but luck was not with them. Taking care of two kids just...it was hard.”

“Two? You have a brother?” 

Alfred nodded slowly. “He’s somewhere in Cuba now. I haven’t seen him ever since we turned eighteen. And, well...I’m not much better. I left the first chance I could for England for better jobs. Not that there was much to leave, anyway. We would manage to secure an apartment for a month, and then get kicked out the next. So, when we were all huddled up in the corner of an alleyway with our blankets and cardboard boxes, I’d roll onto my back and look at the stars. And I’d think, I’m going to be up there. Somehow, someway, I’m going to get close to them.” He turned his head slowly and faced Arthur, smiling softly. “Who knew it’d happen so soon?”

They sat for a long while, enough for the moon to cross several stars over. It must have been early in the morning, not even late at night. That’s how long they stayed talking, and Arthur didn’t bore in the slightest. And Alfred...well, he was overjoyed. Even though his poverty was a sore spot, he didn’t cower or sneer in the slightest when Arthur brought up his struggles because he sounded genuinely tortured by the future that awaited him. At least Alfred had fun with the street kids and had friends throughout his life, even though he had to fight tooth and nail for so much as a slice of bread. Arthur had...nothing. Nothing but money. 

“I’m conflicted,” Alfred said after a moment, letting out a snicker. “Would I take your life? In an instant. Money is the best. But would it suck to not have any friends and to take over a huge company that sucks the life out of you? Yeah.”

That made Arthur laugh, even though he should probably feel offended. As much as he wanted to feel offended, defend himself and his problems, he knew Alfred was right. At least Arthur had the comfort of a bed to languish about his problems. Alfred had problems and had to fight them along with hypothermia. 

“I would have to agree,” Arthur replied, leaning his chin on the palm of his hand. As if one of the waves in the ocean had crashed over him, cold fatigue washed over him, and his eyelids began to become heavier and heavier. He let out a yawn, and Alfred chuckled. 

“Maybe we should continue this conversation another day,” Alfred suggested. He then suddenly got sheepish, his gaze dropping to the deck. “Maybe tomorrow?”

That’s right. They only had four more days until they were forced to part. And it seemed as if Alfred would have to return to England. As if he would abandon a job that put food on the table to pursue a fruitless relationship with a stubborn and socially awkward Brit. So, with a heavy head and heart, Arthur slowly nodded and stood up, holding out his hand. Although the departing was a little formal for two men who just commiserated their life problems with each other, Arthur had no idea how else to say goodbye. 

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, and Alfred quickly stood up and shook Arthur’s hand, shook it with enough force to break it. Arthur had never seen anybody more excited to see him again. It felt oddly...warm.

“Goodnight, Alfred F. Jones,” Arthur said with a wave, turning on his heel and walking back into the ship, having done enough talking and stargazing for one night. Even if it was with the most attractive man he had ever had the pleasure of communicating with, he still had limits for social interaction. 

“Goodbye, Arthur Kirkland,” Alfred mumbled, more to himself than to the other since he was already on his way to his first-class room. Alfred stared after him for a long while, letting out yet another long sigh. These were going to be some very long days, especially with that blond oil tycoon around. With a rapidly beating heart and adrenaline to last for the rest of those four days, Alfred sped down to his quarters, quietly undressing so he wouldn’t wake any of the other workers, and slipping into his cot. Both of the men had dreams filled with each other: of their touches, their expressions, the way the stars reflected in their eyes. They were insatiable when it came to dreams, and when they awoke, they were more tired than when they went to sleep, their minds not resting one moment as it churned out fictitious scenarios with each other. And as they dressed, they were buzzing with excitement for when darkness fell, the sunset taking on a whole new meaning. A new meaning of hope.


	3. Daiquiris and Spectacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur pretends to get lost in order to find Alfred, who promises to meet him at the bar that night to make him something special.

The next day, Arthur found himself wandering the halls of the ship mindlessly, taking in the decor. Perhaps this ship wasn’t too bad after all. It certainly wasn’t the tackiest Arthur had ever seen. It had a seemingly endless number of rooms, all of which Arthur explored since he had nothing much else to do, other than socializing with the higher-ups, and he would rather jump off the bow than do that. However, he only stuck to the first-class rooms. But this wouldn’t do. His mind was solely on Alfred, especially after that enlightening and intriguing conversation they had yesterday. Arthur felt as if he knew the American better than everybody in his life, including his father, and he had only spoken to Alfred once. Well, he was about to change that. Time to head down into the dungeons of the ship: the engine rooms. 

Pretending to be on an expedition of the ship, he told the elevator operator that he was putting together a diorama of the ship, which he accepted and took him to the third-class level. Arthur could visibly see the changes of each level as he sunk down, the walls getting duller and duller and the carpets getting more worn-down. He tried not to shudder as he stepped off on the third-class floor, bidding the operator goodbye. Straight for the stairwell. He didn’t want any third-classer to see him. 

He rapidly descended the stairs, his heart beating faster and faster as he got closer and closer to the man who refused to leave his mind. However, he was met with a heavy metal door, one that clearly said, **BEWARE: ENGINE ROOM—WORKERS ONLY.** Well, if anything, Arthur would pretend to be one of the third-class passengers and act as if he was illiterate. He tried to push open the door slowly, but it seemed as if it was bolted shut. He tried the handle again, but it would not budge. Arthur pressed his entire body weight against the door, but instead of swinging in, the door swung out, toppling him over and onto the floor. 

“Arthur?!” 

Ah, that heavenly voice Arthur had been craving all day. It didn’t matter that it sounded angry; all that mattered was that it was there.

“Alfred…” Arthur breathed, swinging his gaze up from the floor to the attractive blond’s face, smiling dazedly. He was still recovering from the metal door to the face, rubbing his forehead, but it seemed as if Alfred was the perfect anesthetic because he could feel barely any pain. 

“Arthur, what are you doing here?” Alfred asked, lowering his voice self-consciously as he looked over his shoulder. 

A voice from inside echoed off the concrete walls of the stairwell, shouting, “Jones, who’s out there?”

Alfred stuck his head back in the room, shouting back, “It’s just a little kid! Lemme get rid of him.” With that, Alfred quickly closed the door and bent down to help Arthur up onto his feet. “Arthur, again, what are you doing here? This is the engine room, you could’ve gotten seriously hurt!” He saw Arthur rubbing his forehead and scoffed. “You already did. Lemme have a look.”

Arthur couldn’t prepare himself enough for how Alfred cradled the sides of his head so gingerly, tipping his head up as he leaned in to get a better look. Reflexively, Arthur closed his eyes and parted his lips, but when he realized what he was doing, he reluctantly fluttered his eyes open again to reveal Alfred’s beautiful face up close. Perhaps opening his eyes wasn’t such a bad thing. Now, he could see the sweat rolling down his forehead, the faint scar on his temple, the golden skin that could have only come from working hours in the sun, those perfectly crafted eyebrows that framed his face so nicely. And above all, those eyes. 

“Doesn’t look too serious,” Alfred said after a moment of examination, and Arthur nearly sighed out of disappointment once he took his hands away. “Sorry for bopping you, by the way. Well, it wasn’t exactly my fault you were standing right in the middle of the door.”

Arthur’s usual defensive nature took over, and he crossed his arms and huffed. “Well, you shouldn’t go around slamming doors open as if you own the place, you fool.”

Alfred laughed for a moment before motioning to the door with his thumb. “I kind of do. I work here, remember? I know what I’m doing.” However, that bright grin on his face faltered until a serious frown took its place, and he looked over his shoulder again before pushing Arthur up against the end of the stairwell, trying to get the delicate Brit away from the violence of the engine room as much as possible. 

As Arthur felt the wall up against his back and saw Alfred hovering over him, he had to hold back a whimper at how close they were. God forbid he made that noise at all, nevermind in front of Alfred. 

“Arthur, you have to get out of here. You hear the sound of that? That’s the machinery that could crush you in a second flat. Look at what it’s done to me,” he demanded, showing his hands, and along with them, the knicks and scars and burns they held. From the short time Alfred had been working on the ship, it seemed as if he had racked up quite a few injuries, ranging from the bandage around his forearm, the gauze taped on the back of his hand next to his thumb, and the almost-scabbing cut on the tip of his finger. Arthur couldn’t help but take one of Alfred’s hands into his own, turning it over gently as he took in the warmth of the heavy limb in his hands. Alfred sucked in a sharp breath at the small touch, but the Brit didn’t seem to notice. 

“What are you doing down here?” Alfred broke the silence between them, and Arthur shrugged. 

“I got lost.”

“You got lost?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh.”

Alfred stepped back, much to Arthur’s frustration. He crossed his arms, his sleeves slipping up to his elbows and revealing those forearms that made Arthur breathless. “Go back up to first-class, where you belong.”

Arthur couldn’t help but feel a little bit like a dog in that moment. And he didn’t like being told what to do, especially by somebody who couldn’t even go up to first-class. He crossed his arms, mirroring Alfred’s position. “Excuse me. I simply wanted to see you.”

Alfred smirked. “I thought you got lost.”

 _Damn._ Arthur looked away, his cheeks tinted light pink. “C-could it not be both?” He swung his gaze to Alfred and frowned further at the American’s cocky expression. “I wanted to continue that conversation yesterday...there’s nothing interesting to do on this stupid ship.” Yes, he’d go with that excuse. 

Alfred blew a lock of hair out of his face and grinned. “Well, stay behind at the bar again tonight. I used to work as a bartender at a pub in Manchester. I’ll whip you up something real nice, I promise.”

The blush on Arthur’s cheeks intensified, and he nodded silently before walking back up the stairs. He had succeeded twice over: seeing Alfred again, and making another meet-up for tonight. So, he was beyond satisfied, to say the least. “Alright then. See you soon.” 

Alfred’s grin widened at the sight of Arthur’s figure getting smaller and smaller as he climbed up the stairwell, nearly smashing into the metal door as his eyes were still on the Brit. It seemed as if the two of them walked away with similar injuries, and Alfred chuckled at the irony as he walked back into the engine room and back to his position. 

~

After an unbearably dull dinner with the same people who talked about the same boring things, Arthur stayed behind at the bar again just as Alfred told him to, having a meek conversation with the bartender, who he found out was Spanish and named Antonio. 

“You’re going to stay behind again?” Antonio asked, polishing a cup and setting it down. He motioned to the last of the passengers leaving the dining room, including Mary, who gave Arthur a longing look before shaking her head and leaving. 

“Yes, Toni,” Arthur replied, taking a long drag of his cigarette. The bartender gazed at him as he filled up his drink again, now a scotch whiskey. “There isn’t much to do except get drunk on here.”

“Of course there are fun things,” Antonio retorted. “There are so many fun people on this boat. You just need to know where to look.”

“First of all, it’s a _ship_ , not a boat,” Arthur corrected. “Second of all, who have you met who’s nice?”

Antonio laughed, an easy-going laugh. “First of all, I’d like to see you speak a second language, Arthur. Second of all, there’s this cook…” He trailed off, his eyes going glassy and his hand freezing on the rim of the glass he was polishing. He snapped out of it and shook his head, looking down at the cup. “This cook. He’s behind all the amazing Italian dishes you’ve had so far. He’s...amazing. _Hermoso._ ”

Arthur frowned at the insult but shrugged, finishing off his scotch. “One day, I will learn Spanish, and I’ll finally know what you’re saying.” 

Antonio’s eyes flashed with a little fear, but he quickly shook it off and nodded. “I’d love to see that, Arthur.” He pulled the towel on his shoulder down and snapped it before draping it over the sink. He dropped the keys in front of Arthur and grinned. “Can you at least try to remember to lock up tonight? I’m going to give you one more chance before I call security to kick you out.”

“Oh…” Arthur had returned the keys to Antonio when he came to the bar, the next morning, but he had completely forgotten that he hadn’t locked the door, being much too distracted by everything Alfred. “Apologies. Yes, I’ll remember.”

“Thank you.” Antonio waved and left giddily, heading to the kitchen instead of down to his chambers. Interesting. 

It was another thirty minutes before Alfred showed up, nearly scaring Arthur off his seat again when he slid a hand onto Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Sorry about that,” Alfred said in between laughter, but anyone could see it wasn’t sincere. Arthur grumbled and lit another cigarette, shaking his head. 

“Bloody tosser,” Arthur cursed under his breath, taking a drag of his cigarette as Alfred rounded the bar and went behind it, grabbing a cocktail glass and setting it on the counter. 

“One year in England, and I still don’t understand your language,” Alfred said with a chuckle, getting out various liquors and fruit as he prepared the mystery drink. 

“We speak the same language, you dolt.” 

Again, another beautiful laugh from Alfred. How was Arthur supposed to stay mad at him when his laugh was so angelic? “Sometimes I doubt that. Anyway,” Alfred shook a tumbler before pouring it over a strainer into the cocktail glass, sliding it across the bar to Arthur, “enjoy your daiquiri.”

“A daiquiri?” Arthur asked, cocking his head curiously as he lifted the glass up to eye level, inspecting the liquor. Alfred’s eyes widened slightly at the adorable sight before him. Arthur, despite his stubbornness and pottymouth (ironic for a gentleman), was charming. Absolutely charming. And Alfred was charmed. 

“Yeah, it’s new,” Alfred said, making one for himself. “They taught it to me, and I’ve been addicted to it ever since. Now drink it. The way you’re looking at it makes me feel bad, like it’s raw sewage or something.”

“I would know what raw sewage looks like,” Arthur continued to grumble. “I live in bloody disgusting England.” He took a deep breath before tapping the ash off his cigarette and letting it sit in the ashtray and taking a small sip, his eyes going wide at the flavor. “Wow…” he breathed before downing the rest of the glass. “This is...fantastic.”

Alfred laughed and took a sip of his own drink and nodded. “That’s why it’s my favorite. That was the special something I had to show you. I’m glad you like it.”

The two men subsequently fell into silence with a pink blush on both their cheeks. 

“Thank you for showing it to me,” Arthur said, breaking the silence after a while. “I...I’ve never met somebody quite like you, Alfred.”

Alfred choked on his daiquiri as he took another sip, coughing a bit before setting it down on the counter. Whenever situations got serious, Alfred coped with humor, and this situation was no exception. “I sure hope that’s a compliment.”

However, Arthur was quick to shut that down. “It is.”

That left Alfred’s face steaming with how hot it became, and his eyes fell to the granite counter as he struggled with how to respond. However, again, Arthur shut down his train of thought and allowed the American to give the gears in his mind a break. 

“I’ve always felt like such an outcast,” Arthur began, stirring his daiquiri with a wooden stick. “I don’t want to bore you, I suppose I just get sentimental when I’m a little indisposed. But you’re the first person I’ve met who has made me feel as if I belonged. I know we haven’t talked much at all, but...this trip is short, and I wanted you to know that.” That was all the reserved Brit could get out, not accustomed to sharing his feelings so much. But as he himself said, the trip was short. He would part ways with Alfred, and he’d find another man to obsess over—although, that seemed impossible with Alfred in front of him. 

It was a while before Alfred next spoke, making Arthur more nervous with each passing second. But when he did, it was Arthur’s worst nightmare. 

“Why do you feel like an outcast?”

Arthur sighed and stared down at his drink, his fingers twiddling the stem of the glass and swirling the drink around. “I suppose...people can see I’m different.”

“Different?” Alfred was making this impossible.

“...I-I don’t like some of the same things people like. Men like. And they make fun of me.”

“Well, I like plenty of things typical men don’t like. Fruity drinks, fashion, colors. It’s all stupid, anyway, Arthur,” Alfred said, picking up Arthur’s abandoned cigarette and taking a puff before finally putting it out on the ashtray.

“No, that’s not what I—” Clearly Alfred wasn’t understanding. He was only nineteen. What had he experienced in the world? True, most people by his age already were married with children, but in Arthur’s eyes, the American was still a teenager bumbling about. Of course he wouldn’t understand what he was getting at. And clearly Alfred wasn’t like Arthur: a homosexual. What was Arthur hoping for in the first place? A relationship? How laughable. 

“I think you’re perfectly fine, Arthur,” Alfred said with a shrug, pouring himself a vodka shot and shooting it quickly. He winced at the taste, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his neck. “I think you’re the finest person I’ve ever met. Anybody who disagrees with me can fuck off.”

That made Arthur burst out laughing, his whole body wracked with nervousness, humility, and embarrassment. Most of all, happiness. “Quite the verbiage.”

“Says the guy who curses every other sentence, just in his British language,” Alfred said, the both of them dissolving into laughter. It felt so good to laugh. It was simply divine.

“Want to look at the stars again?” Alfred asked.

Arthur replied, “I’d love nothing more.”

~

After a while of laying in the lounge chairs and staring up at the navy sky in silence, Arthur looked over to take in the sight of Alfred’s beauty in the moonlight. He truly did look like an angel. However, he was reminded of something special he wanted to do in return for Alfred’s kindness when he saw the scratches and cracks in his glasses, highlighted by the moon’s soft rays. Arthur cleared his throat, causing Alfred to sit up and turn to meet his gaze.

“Yeah?” 

Arthur smiled sheepishly and reached into his pocket. “I’ve noticed that your spectacles aren’t in the most ideal conditions,” he said, causing Alfred to take off his glasses and look at them. The Brit had to suppress a gasp at how handsome Alfred looked without his glasses, revealing the ocean blues that he had first fallen in love with uninhibited by convex glass. As Alfred turned on his side, his blond hair fell into his eyes, and Arthur fought the urge to reach over and tuck those locks of hair behind his ear.

“And since you gave me something so special tonight,” Arthur said, taking out the velvet case he had kept in his pocket, holding it out for Alfred to grab, “I’d like to return the favor.”

Alfred went quiet, and Arthur was convinced he had also stopped breathing. He slowly reached forward, as if he was in slow motion, and grasped the case, bringing it in to his chest. As he opened the case, Arthur noticed his hands were shaking slightly. 

Once Alfred saw what was in the case, he stopped. However, that didn’t last long before he launched himself on top of Arthur, hopping out of his lounge chair into Arthur’s. He placed the case carefully on the wooden deck before enveloping his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him in close. They laid there on their sides on the same chair, with Arthur trapped in Alfred’s arms, his own arms held up in the air in shock.

“Thank you,” Alfred whispered into the crook of Arthur’s shoulder, his voice muffled as he spoke against Arthur’s vest. “Thank you.”

Once the initial shock faded away, Arthur realized how fast his heart was beating, how horribly close Alfred was, and how their warmths mingled together in the cold of night. He eventually found himself wrapping his arms around Alfred’s waist thick with muscle, apparent under the thin ship-issued uniform. He rested his cheek against the other man’s shoulder and curled into him, nuzzled his nose into his chest in order to smell more of Alfred’s scent. Despite working a terrible number of hours in the worst conditions, he still managed to smell vaguely of pine cologne. 

“Of course, Alfred,” Arthur whispered back, their legs entangling themselves naturally, and as much as Arthur loved this position, he desperately wanted Alfred’s weight on top of him. But this...this was a dream come true. Quite literally, too. 

So the two men stayed in that hug for an unnaturally long amount of time, when two normal men would have split apart two seconds after the embrace. But no, they stayed for nearly ten minutes, just holding each other, listening to each other’s breaths and heartbeats, and taking occasional glances up at the sky. Arthur had made up his mind. No other man would ever compare to Alfred F. Jones.

And Arthur finally remembered to lock the bar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, one day late! Next chapter will be posted sometime during the weekend since I'm on break and have a lot of time to write.


	4. Statues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Arthur are playing around on the ship and taking photographs of each other when they get caught by a security guard. That night, Alfred has some peculiar dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short smut mentioned here.

“W-wait, slow down! Alfred, I-I’m-”

“Already? Come on, then, Arthur! Hurry up!”

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so out of breath…”

“You old man! Now catch up, we’re almost to the best part!” 

“I thought we already saw the best part…”

“Nope!”

Before Arthur knew it, his arm was pulled into yet another room that was so full of gold, he nearly went blind from the light from the chandeliers reflecting off it. He barely had time to register where he was before Alfred was on top of yet another statue, which had been their main adventure of the night. After another night at the bar, Alfred proposed the idea of exploring the ship in its entirety. Who knew it meant pinching the stone nipples of the various statues around the ship or sitting in one of the Greek gods’ laps and pretending to kiss them? It was beyond comical, and Arthur captured all of them on his new Kodak No.3A camera, which had just shipped to England as a new model a few years back. He was extremely grateful to it, especially now that he was able to take photos of his newest obsession and keep them forever. Perhaps he’d keep them in the attic after the inevitable would have to happen: they would separate, with Arthur going to live with his father and Alfred going to wherever life took him. Arthur got married to a nice woman; however, all the while, his true love was hidden in a trunk in the attic upstairs. 

“Oh, you truly are absurd, Alfred,” Arthur said with a roll of his eyes as Alfred stuck out his tongue, about to lick the statue’s ear before the pair of them dissolved into laughter. 

“But you love it,” Alfred pointed out, causing Arthur to blush. How could he deny that? As much as his feelings were yelling at him to do so, he couldn’t muster up the courage to shake his head or say that two-lettered word. 

“I’m not going to answer that,” Arthur settled on instead, lifting his camera and taking a picture of the ridiculous scene while trying to keep his hands steady as he held back his laughter. 

Alfred then spun around until he landed right next to a statue of a man with one foot on top of a block, his hands on his waist. The man had a long beard and coat, and Arthur had to assume he was some type of famous sailor he didn’t care to remember in school. However, if that man looked anything like Alfred, he would have certainly paid attention in class. 

“How do I look?”

Alfred was currently copying the man’s pose, his calloused hands on his hips, his chin tipped upwards to reveal the oil streaks on his neck, his Adam’s apple dancing around as he swallowed. His eyes went up to the ceiling but kept flickering down to gauge Arthur’s reaction, which was speechless. Now how was he supposed to answer this question? Alfred kept hurling the most difficult to answer questions that night, and Arthur couldn’t catch a break. 

Arthur settled on a simple, “Good.” That was all his mouth allowed him to say as he took another photo, licking his lips as he pressed on the shutter release, quickly taking the photo and pocketing the camera again. 

“Now, wait a minute.”

Yet again, Arthur was ill-prepared for Alfred to advance on him so quickly, reaching forward and into his pocket, his face extremely close and accentuating the height difference between them before he, unfortunately, pulled away with the camera. 

“H-hey! You don’t know how to handle that!” Arthur exclaimed, rushing forward to reclaim his camera, but all Alfred did was lift the camera over his head and left Arthur pawing at his stained tank top, which wasn’t the worst outcome since he got to feel Alfred’s muscles and heat up close, but he was more worried for the state of his camera. 

“You’re being a little presumptuous, dontcha think?” Alfred asked with a smirk that was attractive enough to get Arthur to stop in his tracks and stare up at the handsome man. Alfred turned around and looked down at the camera without Arthur’s attacks, taking in the sight of the camera. “Well, you’re right, actually. I’ve never seen a camera this up close. Wow. Very interesting.”

He turned the camera all different angles, causing Arthur’s anxiety to increase exponentially in case he pressed a button that messed up the entire camera. 

“Ah, I think this will work,” Alfred said, turning around and pointing the camera at Arthur’s face, snapping a photo before the Brit could react. He must have looked awful in the photo because Alfred doubled over laughing, smacking his knee. “Beautiful, sir! You look amazing!”

Arthur grumbled and crossed his arms. “Give it back.”

Alfred shook his head. “Not without a proper photo.” He held up the camera to his eye again, his finger hovering over the shutter release. “Okay, give me a nice smile now.”

“Don’t tell me to smile,” Arthur retorted, his arms still crossed until he saw the serious look on Alfred’s face.

_Don’t tell me this fool actually wants my photo…?_

“Very well.” Arthur dropped his hands from their defensive stance, slipping one into the pocket of his trousers and the other gently gripping the top of his vest, slightly shifting his weight onto one foot as he let out a sigh, and along with it, a soft smile. 

Alfred was dumbfounded. He couldn’t find the courage to press the button with how truly beautiful Arthur looked through the little square that allowed him to see through the camera. Even through that small square, Arthur’s ethereality shone and paralyzed Alfred for an awkward amount of time. Before Arthur’s stunning smile turned awkward or before he lost it all because Arthur was impatient, Alfred snapped the photo, staying in place for a few moments longer before lowering the camera and handing it to Arthur. 

“About time, prat,” Arthur mumbled, reaching forward for the camera. Just as his fingers made contact with the folding leather camera, a security guard appeared in the doorway of the ballroom they found themselves in. The two blonds’ heads whipped in the direction of the guard, who looked furious. 

“Found the reasons for the several complaints from residents not being able to sleep,” he growled, shutting off his flashlight and pocketing it. “Come here, you two. Identify yourselves.”

Alfred shot Arthur a look and another one of those tantalizing smirks before he turned to face the guard confidently, taking a step forward that was full of swagger. 

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here, officer!” Alfred exclaimed, his voice full of unnecessary drama that made even Arthur bite back a snicker. The American motioned to the dark corner of the room, underneath a table with a bust and flowers on top. “There was a rat on the ship! This man and I have been following it all over the ship and even took photos since we’ve been ignored oh so many times.” Alfred placed a shaky hand over his chest, and Arthur had to admit, he wasn’t a half-bad actor.

“A...rat?” The guard was clearly confused, so confused that he was somewhat convinced by Alfred’s claim. He stepped away from the door, taking small and reluctant steps toward the dark corner. 

“What, sir, are you afraid of a little rodent?” Arthur asked, egging the man on and furthering Alfred’s claim. It seemed as if that was the perfect thing to do since Alfred’s eyes glimmered with approval and anticipation. 

The guard hesitated before stuttering out, “No. If I see that there really isn’t a rat here, you two are in big-”

“Now!” Alfred interrupted, grabbing Arthur’s hand and pulling him toward the newly freed door, tugging him out and turning a sharp corner and toward the stairwell. They had ended up running around the first-class lounges, so Alfred threw open the stairwell door and proceeded to practically throw Arthur down the stairs to his stateroom, laughing and giggling the entire time while Arthur continuously asked him to slow down between pants and his own childish giggling. He really was acting like a child: running around the hallways of a ship, hiding behind walls and shushing Alfred as a watchman passed by, partaking in Alfred’s foolishness by obliging to kiss a statue one time. That was enough to set Alfred off the edge, which probably was the reason why they were running at lightspeed down the stairwell. 

Once they reached the wing of the ship that held all the first-class staterooms, they huddled together and caught their breaths, laughing amongst themselves.

"'Are you afraid of a little rodent?' Who knew Arthur Kirkland was so scandalous?" Alfred asked before bursting out into laughter again, and Arthur couldn't help but agree with his laughter.

"I had to get us out of there!" Arthur replied, pushing Alfred's shoulder gently, just that small touch sending electricity throughout both their bodies. "I am a much better actor than you are. however."

"Big talk for somebody who stutters every time he lies," Alfred shot back with a smirk, sending Arthur into yet another red-faced stutter, just as the stupid American had predicted.

"B-be quiet, you idiot." Arthur huffed and turned away from the other, heading down the hallway to his room. Alfred began to follow but immediately slowed down and shifted his weight awkwardly as he stared down the manicured hallway. He didn’t belong here. It wasn’t just that he worked in the engine rooms and was covered in grime and soot—he never experienced luxury in his entire life. The most expensive thing he’d ever held outside of work was probably Arthur’s camera. Now, as he watched Arthur meander down the hallways in search of his room so easily since he was so used to this royal purple wallpaper and polished hardwood floors, it made his chest tighten. Not to mention...he was so close to Arthur’s bedroom, whatever that meant in his mind. He didn’t want to think about it too much.

“Are you coming or not?” Arthur asked, standing in front of his room, fumbling in his pocket for the key. Alfred broke out of his wealth-induced trance and followed Arthur to his door, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. 

“Are you...inviting me inside?” Alfred asked, and just as he did, Arthur unlocked his door and let it swing open to reveal the biggest bed he had ever set eyes on along with the biggest bedroom he’d ever seen. There were even chairs and a table inside! 

At Alfred’s question, Arthur broke out into a blush at the connotations of it, bringing up a hand to hide the bottom half of his face in hopes to shield out his redness. 

“Oh, um...if you would like,” Arthur mumbled, turning his face away and staring down at the floor to avoid eye contact with the American with no filter. “I can’t imagine the cots where you sleep are very comfortable.”

“They’re not,” Alfred replied slowly, weighing the situation. Was Arthur seriously inviting him to spend the night? He presumed that he would be sleeping on the couch—then why was Arthur being so bashful? To be quite honest, the entire time they spent together and especially now would certainly not be something two normal men did together. He wasn’t even sure if Arthur had a girlfriend or wife—surely he did. Then why did that thought make his stomach drop so horridly?

“But…” Alfred sighed heavily. He desperately wanted to spend more time with Arthur. Not even in the same room; he had accepted that he wanted to be in that bed with Arthur, wanted to feel his touches, wanted to kiss him so furiously. The moment was so perfect: his eyes were wavering over Arthur’s lips, so pink and primed for a kiss. But no. Something inside him was twisting and pulling him away, causing him to take a step back just in case the other side of him won over and pushed him to envelop those lips into a kiss. 

“You have to leave,” Arthur concluded for his friend, nodding slowly. “I understand. You wouldn’t want to risk your job. Besides,” Arthur took a deep breath, “it wouldn’t be proper for you to...to sleep in here.” 

“Yes,” Alfred agreed, even though his body screamed at him to stop. However, he made a compromise with himself: one side wanted sex and even more, the other wanted to run away and never speak to Arthur again. So instead, he reached forward and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s small frame, bringing him into a tight hug, their chests pressed together and their faces buried in each other’s shoulders. Arthur took barely a second to recover from the surprise action, wrapping his arms around Alfred’s waist and resting his cheek against Alfred’s exposed shoulder, taking in his warm skin sticky with sweat. In any other situation, he’d be beyond disgusted; but now, he couldn’t help but sink into those strong arms further. 

After what felt like between seconds and forever, Alfred managed to pull away, dropping his arms back to his side. Arthur fought back the urge to sigh from disappointment, instead looking up and into Alfred’s sapphire eyes. He had since been using the glasses he gave him, and they suited him so much better than the old ones. At least now he hoped Alfred could see correctly and would decrease the risk of him hurting himself around those dangerous machines. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Alfred mumbled. While he was sad to have to go, a grin spread across his face when he realized he would be able to see Arthur yet again tomorrow. What would they do then? How exciting! Alfred’s disappointment was quickly replaced with anticipation, and he reached up and tucked a lock of Arthur’s hair behind his ear, smiling down at him before turning around and running off. “Sweet dreams, Arthur!”

Arthur chuckled fondly and waved goodbye to him, slipping into his bedroom and sadly, into his empty bed. He wanted to feel the warmth and weight of a body next to him, a certain body that had just run away. He wanted Alfred. He had made up his mind. The trip was short. They only had two more days. And he would use those two days to his fullest. 

~

_“A-Alfred...Alfred, more…”_

_“Ahn—yes! It f-feels so good, love! Please, more!”_

_“I-I’m coming, Alfred, I’m almost—”_

_Whines, moans, and whimpers overtook Alfred’s mind and eardrums. Soft skin, discarded clothes, and silky hair wrapped around his fingers. Various fluids, Arthur’s lips, and his lover’s Adam’s apple fell upon his tongue. His name was the only thing out of Arthur’s mouth when it wasn’t filled with him, those creamy thighs wrapping around his waist and squeezing him as they both reached their–_

Alfred gasped as he sat upright, blinking away the leftover sleep from his eyes and rubbing them as he looked around, seeing that he was in the staff quarters surrounded by his roommates. They were thankfully still asleep, especially since when Alfred looked down, his thin covers were...a sticky mess. Look at what Arthur did to him. How embarrassing. What was he, a teen going through those intense hormones again? However, the more he looked at the mess the more he remembered his dream. It truly was a dream because it would never happen in real life. He was certainly going to hell for these sinful thoughts, and for them to be so visceral, so tactile as to affect him so physically...it made him truly ashamed. How was he going to get past his superiors?

Clearly, he didn’t, because as he gathered up his sheets and walked outside to the laundry room, a couple of his coworkers, Gilbert and Mathias, passed by him from the bathroom, snickering once they saw the scene before them.

“Nice, Alfie,” they jeered, spitting some of the chewing tobacco in their mouths onto the floor. “Wet dreams? I knew you were young, but what are you, fifteen? I know labor laws are lax, but that has to be a crime.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as he threw them down the chute. He sincerely felt bad for whatever maid had to deal with that. But he was sure they were used to it; this was a luxury cruise after all. He was sure other couples were getting it on and getting their sheets much dirtier than he was. 

“What were you dreaming of? Your woman back at home? That Mabel Normand chick?” Gilbert continued, irking Alfred even further because it only reminded him more of his predicament. What would their reactions be if he told them he actually dreamed of a man? 

“I said shut up, Gil,” he growled, punching Gilbert in the arm while Mathias simply laughed his head off. “I’m getting dressed. Don’t be spreading this around.” 

“I would never,” Gilbert exclaimed, feigning offense. “We’re friends, after all.”

“Yeah, friends,” he said with a roll of his eyes before heading back into his quarters, getting ready for his workday. However, it was extremely hard when Arthur took up the majority of his mind. He had seriously had an intimately inappropriate dream about Arthur. About them—ugh. Was that seriously what he wanted?

He had made up his mind. He was going to confess to Arthur before the end of the trip. They only had two more days. Life was short. He’d probably be dead in three years. And he wanted to die with a smile on his face, knowing he wouldn’t be regretting that missing connection he had made on the _Titanic_ all those years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, apologies for the late update. California is literally on fire, again, and there was a fire across the mountainside from us, so we had to make evacuation plans. We're good now! I'll stop saying when the next update might be because I have a terrible track record so far and don't want to give you guys hope. Anyway, signing off, and the next update will be when I upload it!


	5. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entire chapter dedicated to smut ahead. 
> 
> Arthur finally admits his feeling to Alfred, who shows him just how much he loves him.

The rest of the day went normally other than the flashes of Arthur splayed out underneath him that tortured Alfred’s mind, causing him to daydream and nearly get his fingers crushed by a slamming piece of machinery.

“Jones!” Gilbert exclaimed, smacking Alfred upside the head to wake him up from his Arthur-induced imagination. “Goddamn, was the dream that good?”

“What dream?” Ludwig, Gilbert’s brother, piped up, chewing some tobacco and spitting it onto the floor. Alfred shot Gilbert a look of pure acid, telepathically warning him that if this stupid white-haired idiot told anybody, he’d be found dead the next day, sandwiched between the machines. Gilbert clearly got the memo, because he quickly put his hands up defensively and chuckled nervously, shaking his head in his brother’s direction.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gilbert replied, clapping Alfred on the shoulder. “Anyway, I wanted to give you this. Some butler or whatever came down here to give me this and told me to give it to you.”

The Prussian stuck out his hand, a small white note folded neatly and pressed into his palm. Just the pristine nature of the folding and quality of the note, as well as the faint imprints of neat cursive handwriting on the inside of it, lead Alfred to know exactly who wrote it and sent it down. He nodded in Gilbert’s direction in a wordless exchange of gratitude before walking away for privacy, unfolding the note to reveal Arthur’s immaculate and methodical handwriting, something he’d expect and had predicted from his newfound friend. 

_Alfred,_

_I have something to tell you. Please meet me at the port of the ship, where we first met, whenever you can. Dress dark, and please come open-minded._

_Your friend,_

_Arthur Kirkland_

It was a simple enough note. Then why were Alfred’s hands trembling so? Why could he barely hold the note and almost dropped it down a steam machine? Why did he immediately fold and pocket it as if it was gold, as if it was worth a million dollars? Above all, why did he feel as if he knew exactly what Arthur was going to say to him? 

There was only one way to confirm his suspicions. And that was to meet Arthur at the port. 

~

The rest of the workday was tortuous, much more than usual because Alfred actually had something to look forward to afterward. However, when the bell sounded, signaling the end of his shift, he quickly peeled off his uniform, tried his best to freshen himself up in the communal showers (which barely had any soap, but he made do), and nearly got caught by his superiors with how hasty he was with his movements. He pressed himself against the wall, trying to hide away from his boss as he rounded the corner smoking a cigar, and when he was in the clear, he bolted up the stairwell. He had gotten to know the ship very well in his short time on it, both due to the fact he had to look at the plans for it every day and because of his exploration with Arthur. Although he was fairly surprised he had been able to commit anything to memory that wasn’t Arthur’s face, Arthur’s body, Arthur’s laughter, Arthur’s—well, everything. 

Once he reached the bar, which was as he expected—dark and empty—he looked around for Arthur only to spot him through the windows, the small blond overlooking the ocean and leaning over the railing. His short tuft of hair was blowing so majestically in the soft wind, Alfred felt drawn to it, and when he arrived at Arthur’s side, it took everything in him not to raise his hand and run his fingers through those silky locks. 

“You called for me?” Alfred asked quietly so as not to surprise his friend like he did the other day. However, instead of jumping and cussing Alfred out, Arthur’s body visibly went rigid, his grip on the railing turning yellow-knuckled. The American quickly became concerned, reluctantly raising his hand before he settled it on the small of Arthur’s back. “Hey, are you—”

“Don’t,” Arthur immediately interrupted him, causing Alfred to draw his hand back as if he had been burned. He took a step back, watching as Arthur lowered his head and took a deep breath. His face was obscured in the darkness, but Alfred could imagine the stressful expression that matched his tone of voice. “Don’t...touch me.”

“I just wanted to know if you were—”

“ _I’m not okay_!” Arthur nearly shrieked, whipping around to face Alfred, tears glistening on his flushed cheeks. 

Oh, no. Oh, no no no. What had he done to receive such a reaction from his friend? Did he hate being touched so much? Alfred raised a shaky hand to his mouth, unsure of what to with his hands now that they’ve been rejected. He decided to keep quiet in order to allow Arthur to get everything out, and that everything was a lot. 

“I-I’m not okay, Alfred,” Arthur whimpered, brushing away his tears with the back of his hand and trying to sniffle back the remaining tears, but that was futile as the drying trails on his cheek were quickly replaced by a new set. He was ugly crying now, sobbing intensely, his hand gripping his chest to try and gain any semblance of oxygen in his lungs back. “I’m not n-n-normal. I’m a sinner. I can’t handle it when you touch m-me because...because my mi-mind goes to such dark places, to places it shouldn’t go. I can’t handle it when our fingers touch because you make me feel like I’ve never felt before, Alfred. No other person, no other wo _...woman_ who has touched me has made me feel so electric, so warm, like you.

“I’m a sinner because I...because I _love_ you, Alfred! I’ve never felt love—I’ve never been in love before, but I know that these feelings I feel whenever I think of you aren’t normal. I know it’s wrong, that it’s disgusting, but you don’t make me feel disgusting. You’re the only person who hasn’t. It pains me to be around you when I know we’ll be separated by an ocean in only a few more days, when I know you don’t feel the same way—”

It was Alfred’s turn to interrupt Arthur, this time with a kiss. With one swift motion, Alfred stepped forward and cradled the crying Brit’s face between his shaking hands, wiping some of the tears away with his thumbs before leaning down and pressing a deep, passionate, loving kiss dripping in yearning onto those trembling lips. He could taste the saltiness of Arthur’s tears mingling in with their mouths, Alfred’s tongue lapping all of them up as they squeezed their way onto Arthur’s bottom lip. 

After the initial shock dissipated, Arthur nearly fell into the kiss with the way his knees were wobbling so harshly. His hands went from gripping Alfred’s forearms tightly in fear to around his neck, draping his arms over Alfred’s shoulders as he pulled him in deeper into the kiss, their teeth clashing with how forceful they were being. But who could blame the poor Brit and the pitiful American? They were desperate, their dreams being occupied solely by each other, their chest-tightening desire for each other finally reaching an end as they both solidified their feelings for each other in a kiss. 

Arthur only processed Alfred’s tongue on his mouth once he got used to the kiss, never having actually kissed anybody before. He relinquished all power to Alfred, the taller male seeming to know exactly what to do. He parted his lips and stiffened slightly when the moist muscle entered his mouth but quickly melted into the kiss again, entangling his fingers in Alfred’s hair. He sighed at the feeling of Alfred’s strong arms, the ones he had fantasized about being wrapped around him ever since he saw them, enveloping his waist and lifting him slightly upwards to compensate for the height difference. 

“Alfred...” he whispered into the kiss before diving back to those lips that he couldn’t stop staring at for these past few days. 

“Arthur…” Alfred growled, causing a sinful heat to settle itself in Arthur’s stomach at the sound of Alfred’s low voice, rumbling deep in his chest. 

Arthur had hardly noticed them moving until Alfred pinned him up against the glass of the ceiling-to-floor windows of the dining room, one of the American’s hands gripping the glass while the other stayed firmly on Arthur’s waist. He gasped at the feeling of cold glass behind him, but it was rapidly heated up by both of their bodies, and his attention was recaptured by the kiss.

This didn’t feel real to Alfred. The way Arthur was letting him kiss him, how tactile that tongue felt against his, how delicious those lips tasted after the saltiness of Arthur’s tears subsided, how he had dreamed of this exact same thing happening over and over and over...well, if this was a dream, all Alfred could ask for was that he didn’t wake up. 

“Alfred...Alfred...my room key,” Arthur pleaded, pulling away from his new lover to both speak and catch his breath. As much as he now couldn’t live without continuing to kiss Alfred, it was still his first kiss, and he hadn’t learned how to regulate his breath yet, especially with how desperate and clingy they were for each other. 

Alfred’s eyes darkened at the connotations of what Arthur was pleading for, and he gave Arthur a skeptical look.

Arthur understood fully well that look, and he nodded emphatically. “Yes, I want to. I want you, Alfred. I need you.”

That was all Alfred needed. He shoved his hand down Arthur’s pocket, his fingers wrapping around the key and swooping his lover up into a bridal carry. He didn’t even think about other people seeing them because the only person occupying his mind was Arthur Kirkland, the beautiful, stunning, heavenly, handsome, and perfect Arthur Kirkland. 

~

The near-run to Arthur’s bedroom went by in a blur, the door slamming shut and Alfred subsequently climbing on top of the smaller man, who was panting despite not being the one carrying and running with another person. He was panting out of pure desire, and once Alfred’s face hovered over him, he reached up and brought the American’s face down to his own, embracing his lips once again since they were so irresistible. 

Who knew simply sharing his feelings would get them this far? He was expecting to be thrown off the side of the ship, honestly. If this was what could happen if he simply talked about his feelings, he would’ve done this years ago. Now, he would do it in the future, forever and ever. 

Alfred’s hands roamed Arthur’s chest, one slipping underneath and immediately surprising him due to the heat radiating from Arthur’s soft skin. Alfred’s fingertips grazed over the skin, earning an adorable gasp from the man underneath him. That was exactly what Alfred wanted. He wanted to make Arthur feel good, feel pleasure, feel loved. And that was exactly what he planned to do.

His lips trailed from Arthur’s to his cheek, his chin, his jaw, and then finally, his neck. With each area his lips explored, Arthur squirmed and produced new sounds he never thought he’d hear from the Brit. They were all the perfect encouragements to keep him going, his lips now licking and sucking on the sensitive, pale skin of the crook of Arthur’s neck. 

“A-ah!” Arthur cried out as Alfred formed a bruise, the reddish mark coming to full pigmentation a few seconds after he had left it. “Alfred, t-that—ahn!”

It was all Alfred wanted and had dreamt about and more. 

He only pulled away for a few seconds to free Arthur’s torso from the confines of his vest and shirt, nearly ripping the buttons off the blouse as he took it off, discarding it off the side of the bed. He soon returned his lips to the newly exposed expanse of skin below him, leaving a trail of red marks of different sizes all over Arthur’s milk-colored skin that seemed to glow in the pallid moonlight streaming in from the window. 

Arthur was on cloud nine. He was not in the right headspace to properly process the logic that if Alfred left those marks, they’d be nearly impossible to hide from above the collar, and that seemed to be the foolish American’s favorite spot. But in his current state, he couldn’t give less of a damn. He tangled his hands in Alfred’s hair again as his lover went lower and lower on his kissing and sucking and licking expedition, his back arching slightly whenever Alfred’s mouth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. Alfred loved to tease his nipples, finding it to be one of Arthur’s erogenous zones by the moans and shivers they produced. 

But as Alfred’s fingers reached the waistband of Arthur’s trousers, he immediately noticed when Arthur’s body stiffened, his grip on Alfred’s hair tightening substantially. 

“Arthur? Are you alright?” Alfred asked, his fingers pausing their unbuckling of the belt. 

Arthur refused to make eye contact with his lover, his eyes instead drifting to the corner of the room. “I...I-I’ve never...I mean—”

“It’s okay,” Alfred reassured, pressing a kiss onto the corner of Arthur’s pink lips, abused from their rough and desperate kisses. So he would be Arthur’s first. As much as he didn’t like paying attention to those inane things, he couldn’t help but feel honored, feel even more enamored with the Brit at the fact that the man was opening himself up to him so. “I’ll teach you. I’ll be gentle. I’ll make you feel good.”

That made those stunningly green eyes drift back to meet blue, a bemused glint taking over the greenness. Arthur smiled bashfully, the blush on his face reddening even more if that was even possible. “You’ve already accomplished that, git.”

Alfred snickered and resumed unbuttoning Arthur’s trousers and creating more love marks on that delicate neck. 

So Alfred had...been intimate before. With men? With how confident he was being with everything, it seemed so. Arthur didn’t like images that brought in his mind, but it sure did help to move things along, especially with how expertly Alfred slipped his hand underneath the band of his drawers and gripped him with strong and calloused hands. 

“H-h...ah…” Arthur gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as he sunk his fingernails into Alfred’s shoulders. “W-wow…”

“Feel good?” Alfred asked with a smirk, earning him a half-hearted smack to the shoulder before Arthur dug his fingernails in again, his hips bucking unwittingly into Alfred’s hand.

“P-prat…” was all Arthur was able to get out before a moan spilled out of his mouth without his permission as Alfred’s thumb passed over his slit, sending a burst of electricity through his body. Arthur had touched himself before, as nearly everybody had, but quickly stopped due to the horrid thoughts that filled his mind whenever he was done and because he was far too busy with work to find a moment to himself. However, he quickly found that he much preferred Alfred’s hand on him; the way his wrist flicked, how he used the pre-ejaculate beading at his tip as lubrication, how that thumb tortured him so whenever it teased his head. 

“O-oh, God,” Arthur breathed, his hips continuing to buck more and more violently. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to climax over a simple stroking?” Alfred asked teasingly, earning him another punch. “We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

“T-then—” Arthur slowly opened his eyes to reveal them, glassy with lust, staring up at his lover. “—get on with it already.”

The demand sent yet another shiver of anticipation through Alfred’s body, and he quickly nodded and looked around the room for something to make the process as painless as possible. He spotted a jar of cream on the dresser, and he jumped off the bed and climbed back on after he had retrieved it in record time. 

“What’s that for?” Arthur asked curiously as Alfred spun the lid open and dug his pointer and middle finger inside, spreading the white cream all over those tantalizingly long fingers. 

Alfred looked down at Arthur in disbelief. “Uh...you...do you know how it works between men?”

Arthur’s face went tomato, his eyes avoiding eye contact as much as possible. “I-I thought it was just that...the—the stroking.” 

This was even better. Arthur’s mind was about to be blown after the initial pain subsided. And Alfred would do everything in his power to make sure that happened as speedily as possible, if at all. 

“Not at all,” Alfred said as matter-of-factly as possible, trying not to make Arthur feel bad. It was enough that he was offering himself to him, he didn’t want to patronize him for it. “That’s not all.” Alfred fully peeled off Arthur’s trousers and drawers, joining the rest of the clothes on the floor, leaving him stark naked. Arthur was ethereal. Absolutely exquisite. The moonlight made him look like an angel, the light making his luminous white skin glow, as well as the lavish silk bedsheets wrinkled underneath his slender, blushing body. How lucky was he? Alfred would never know. 

“There’s still—” Alfred cut himself off as he rounded Arthur’s pink entrance, using his other hand to gently push Arthur’s leg up to give easier access to his fingers. He then pushed in extremely slow, not wanting to cause any pain for the love of his life. “—this.”

It must have been comical to anyone who saw how wide Arthur’s eyes and mouth grew as the feeling of Alfred’s finger entering him got deeper and deeper. _What was this feeling?!_ Arthur couldn’t deny the discomfort he felt, his legs subconsciously shutting themselves and his walls clamping down on the skinny but long intrusion. 

“Arthur.”

Alfred’s voice was the only thing that could have broken him out of his thoughts, which were running a mile a minute. The feeling was too foreign, and a slight panic began to rise in Arthur’s chest. If he was correct in his assumptions of where this would lead next, he would simply have to refuse! How could a—an appendage that large fit inside him when a finger could barely do so?

“Relax.”

_Funny words coming from somebody who isn’t going through this!_

Arthur nodded, more to himself to try and encourage himself to relax his body. His grip on the bedsheets went lax, and while his spine was still curved off the bed, he managed to relax his walls enough so that Alfred could actually pump his finger inside and out. 

“Isn’t that area—a-ah—d-dirty?” Arthur stuttered out, squeezing his eyes shut again as he focused on the feeling and tried to will away the fear and rigidness of his body. 

“Doesn’t feel like it to me,” Alfred said with a snicker, and if Arthur had any strength left in his body, he would have slapped the man hanging above him. “You take baths, right?” 

The finger was going faster now, pressing into his walls instead of hovering in the middle of his hole. It was still uncomfortable, but it no longer felt foreign—it seemed as if his body was getting used to it, just in time for another finger to be added. 

“T-too fast!” Arthur exclaimed. Even though these were first-class rooms, he doubted they were built with thick walls. But he couldn’t keep his voice down if he tried. 

“I’m sorry,” Alfred whispered, dropping the teasing act and lowering down to press kisses onto Arthur’s jaw, hoping to alleviate some of the discomforts he was feeling. 

After a minute to give Arthur a chance to breathe, he nodded his head, mentally telling Alfred to resume. Alfred nodded back, the two of them sharing a wordless exchange of consent before Alfred began pumping his fingers again, extremely slow while still doing a scissoring motion to best spread Arthur open. The Brit let out quiet puffs of air and the occasional soft moan when a finger grazed a slightly sensitive spot along his walls, his eyes still squeezed shut and his hands still fisting the bedsheets tightly. 

Before long, yet another finger was added, causing Arthur to squirm for a few moments before he got used to that digit as well. It seemed as if when his body was this full of lust and desire, it was easy to loosen up and accept the discomfort and turn it into...not discomfort. He was yet to feel pleasure, the small gasps and breaths only due to the shock of having three fingers inside him. 

However, Alfred did something with his hand—whether it was a change of angle, a faster pace, whatnot—that had Arthur’s head thrown back and a wave of pleasure rip through him, his hand clutching the pillowcase to ground him in this realm. 

“ _Y_ _-yes!_ Oh, my God! Again!” Arthur cried out as a finger massaged a spot inside him that drove him crazy. 

It was unbeknownst to him that Alfred had been attempting to find that spot all night long, and once he found it, he committed its location to memory. It was the best thing inside a male, possibly even better than their genitalia. It was a shame that most men didn’t know it was there. If this wasn’t supposed to happen between men, then why did they have such a sensitive spot inside them? Yet another reason why Alfred didn’t believe in the overbearing church his parents subjected him to. 

Once Arthur came down from his high, the room went silent. 

“W-what was that?” Arthur asked in what seemed to be an almost fearful tone. It truly was adorable how Arthur was scared of his own pleasure, of how his own body reacted when feeling good. 

“I call it the ‘special spot,’” Alfred replied with a smirk. “Was it special?”

Arthur frowned at Alfred’s cockiness, and if it weren’t for the three fingers moving simultaneously inside him, he would have given the stupid American a thorough thrashing. Yet again, those fingers dragged against that spot, causing Arthur to cry out.

“Alfred! _More!_ ” He was gasping for breath at this point, not used to shouting so much. He wasn’t sure what that ‘more’ was; all he knew was that he needed it fast, needed to be stretched, needed to be filled. 

“More?” The word had Alfred drop his cocky attitude, as well as his suspenders. He unbuttoned his shirt, locking eyes with Arthur as the Brit watched him undress. Next was his pants and finally, his underwear. He dropped them all over the side of the bed, reaching over for the cream again and scooping a substantial amount out of the jar. 

While Alfred was preparing himself, it all gave Arthur the chance to fully take in the beauty that was his Greek god of a lover. It truly did seem as if he was sculpted out of clay by God himself, his torso and abs and taut, golden skin all resembling the statues he’d seen in museums. Alfred was sweating now, his skin glistening with it, making the sight of Alfred stroking himself to lubricate even more erotic. More waves of heat were sent downwards, straight to Arthur’s nether regions, and his legs opened themselves slightly at the sight of Alfred, large and imposing, between them. The fear was gone, completely replaced with anticipation. If the fingers provided a fraction of pleasure he could receive with Alfred’s much larger appendage, then he wanted to feel it as quickly as possible. 

“I think that’s enough,” Alfred said, accidentally letting out a grunt as he stroked himself a little too much. Just that sound made Arthur drunk on it, wanting to hear it more and more. He shakily reached up with one hand to cup Alfred’s face, wanting to feel those eyes on him.

“Make love to me, Alfred,” he commanded, spreading his legs open even wider to invite the male above him inside. Now he knew very well how sex between men worked, and he wanted it, desperately. 

The sight spurred something inside Alfred. Any man would be beyond electrified at the sight of their partner offering themselves up to be plunged into, but Alfred’s hormones were raging more than ever. The sight of Arthur’s soft trembling thighs spreading wide, his pretty pink entrance pulsing in loss, the demure expression, and demeanor Arthur held—all of it caused Alfred to toss the jar of cream over his shoulder on the far end of the bed and dive in. 

His hand went to interlace with Arthur’s, separating one from its hold on the pillow. The other went to grip himself again, guiding himself to Arthur’s entrance. He looked down to where they would connect, his tip pressing against the magic ring of muscle. Just that touch was enough to weaken his elbows substantially. 

He looked up to Arthur, meeting his gaze and whispering, “I love you.” 

Arthur wasn’t even granted the time to process that before a burning sensation spread throughout his entire lower body the more Alfred pushed in, his legs immediately wrapping around his waist to try and stop their trembling, but it just made it worse. The pain was substantial, and he didn’t even want to picture what it would be like without the thorough stretching Alfred gave him beforehand. 

On the other hand, Alfred was in heaven. The second he pushed inside Arthur, he let out a low groan, one that resonated throughout his chest, as the warm and moist and velvety walls overtook him and wrapped around him so tightly. It was indescribable how pleasurable it was. He nearly lost himself before a whimper of pain passed Arthur’s lips, and he knew it was out of pain because it didn’t sound anything like what those moans sounded like. 

“Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?” he asked hurriedly.

It took Arthur a while to reply, for he was in a world of his own, one that kept repeating for him to relax and loosen up. He tried, his walls loosening slightly on their tight hold on Alfred. Once he opened his eyes, he only then realized that he was tearing up. 

“It...it hurts, my love,” Arthur whispered hoarsely.

Alfred couldn’t believe it. He had been with a few men, but they were already experienced with receiving. Never had he had somebody who cried. And he was feeling completely unprepared and guilty. Maybe this could wait another day. “Well, then, let me—”

“No!”

The exclamation surprised them both, most of all Alfred. 

“Alfred, I want this,” Arthur continued, bringing Alfred’s face closer to his. “I want to be with you in this way. I—” Arthur’s shyness cut him off, but he pushed through it. “I love you.” 

Alfred felt himself get emotional, but he knew it would be very awkward if the two of them were crying while having sex. He nodded wordlessly and leaned down to kiss his love, his partner, his boyfriend (as childish as that was). They stayed like that for what felt like hours, in each other’s arms, switching between kissing and Alfred whispering sweet nothings into Arthur’s ear to try and distract him from the pain. 

However, once Arthur found that the burning sensation went away and was replaced with the usual discomfort he felt with Alfred’s fingers, he squeezed Alfred’s midsection with his legs and nodded. 

“I’m ready. Love me, Alfred. Please.”

Alfred stared down at Arthur to make sure he was serious, to make sure he wasn’t just saying it, but when he saw the conviction in his eyes, he nodded in response and slowly pulled out and pushed in, earning a groan from himself and a soft expulsion of breath from his lover as he adjusted to the new feeling inside him. He rocked his hips slowly, building up a soft and deliberate rhythm, all to not hurt Arthur. 

“Does it hurt?” Alfred asked, now breathless after a few experimental thrusts. 

“N-not much,” Arthur replied, much quicker than before. His fingernails were digging into the back of Alfred’s hand, and the other had a firm grasp on the pillowcase. “Keep going.” He then got shier and looked down between them, his cheeks lighting up again. He let out a shaky breath before saying, “Faster. Don’t...don’t hold back.” 

Alfred couldn’t believe his ears. What was going on with Arthur? He was pushing himself too hard, truly. But if he wanted it…

“Okay, I won’t,” Alfred whispered, nipping at Arthur’s earlobe as he sped up his pace, his hips snapping into Arthur and causing the slaps of skin to echo throughout the room. 

“A- _ah!_ ” Arthur yelped, but this time, not out of pain. Just out of surprise at the sudden change, but he had asked for it. And he shall receive. He continued to let out short puffs of air and slight moans whenever Alfred made a new mark, but he was still yet to receive pleasure like that moment with Alfred’s finger. He was simply bouncing up and down on the bed, being held in place by Alfred’s strong hands, listening to the noises of pleasure leaving Alfred’s mouth. To be honest, that was enough to please Arthur, to listen to those moans and see that gorgeous expression on his lover’s face: eyebrows knitted together, sweat beading on his forehead, his red mouth hung open and salivating at how good Arthur felt inside. The Brit was proud, proud that he was giving Alfred so much pleasure from a simple hole in his body. 

“Ugh...fuck!” Alfred exclaimed when a particularly punishing thrust accidentally sent Arthur up the bed and the headboard crashing against the wall. And it was with that one thrust that had Arthur seeing stars.

“ _Alfred!_ ” he shouted, his eyes rolling up into his head as that unfamiliar but wholly welcome feeling overtook his body. “Oh, goodness, more! Just l-like... _ahn!_...that!” 

And Alfred listened. He pounded into Arthur, the both of them now moaning in pleasure rather than pain, Arthur now extremely vocal versus just the labored breathing he was doing before. He loosened his hold on Alfred’s hand and clung onto his back with both hands, now damp with sweat, but he dug his fingernails in to keep them centered on the bigger man’s muscular back, feeling the muscles bulging and moving underneath his skin as his lover thrust faster and harder into him, hitting that special spot with each thrust. 

“G-God...yes—y-yes! S-so— _shit_ —good! H...ah, ah-!” Arthur mewled, unable to restrain his voice. Alfred absolutely loved it, rewarding Arthur for his moans with unrestrained slams into him, the bed creaking dangerously between them and the headboard creating a rhythm as it beat the wall. 

“Hah...so fuck—fucking tight,” Alfred groaned through gritted teeth, his hips moving with a mind of their own to further the indescribable feeling of pleasure rolling through his body with each thrust. However, the punishing rhythm they had taken on began to falter the closer to his climax he got, the pool of lava in his stomach churning at a faster and faster rate.

Arthur was going through a dilemma: wanting for this moment of connection and love between them to last forever, and to feel the sweet release of pent-up sex. He settled on the latter since it seemed too much to ask for his first time to go for hours, and already minutes in, he was unraveled. 

“Ngh-! A-Alfred, something—s-something’s coming...oh, God, I-I’m almost th... _there!”_ And with that exclamation and a swift slam from Alfred’s hips, Arthur’s body began to convulse as white liquid painted his and Alfred’s chests, this orgasm being particularly cruel to him. His eyes rolled back into his head like before, his back arching dangerously, and his head thrown back so much his Adam’s apple made a prominent appearance. 

“ _ALFRED!_ ” he shrieked, the only word he could fathom saying before his body went limp. 

The second Arthur climaxed, his walls clamped down on Alfred much tighter than when he first entered, if that was even possible. It made it impossible to move, although that wasn’t a problem because the second those walls hugged him tight and didn’t let him go, Alfred’s body went rigid as his orgasm spilled inside Arthur, sucking in a sharp breath before letting out a long, low groan. A shiver was sent down his body as he continued to pump Arthur full of his seed, causing him to grow even tighter and fuller. Arthur loved it. The moment he felt that liquid coat his insides, it only furthered his climax along, his body wracked with tremors. 

After what felt like eons, Alfred’s rigidity went away as the wave of orgasm waned, going limp, much like his lover. He pulled out slowly, a bittersweet action that caused the two men to hiss in displeasure at the loss of heat, and fell down next to his partner, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes to catch his breath. 

He flinched at the pinky hooking onto his, his entire body much too sensitive for touch, but when he knew it was Arthur, he relaxed, his eyes still closed. 

“I love you,” Arthur whispered, cuddling up to Alfred’s side and entangling their legs together. 

Alfred chuckled, finally opening his eyes and lazily turning his head to face Arthur. He whispered back, sleepy and fatigued, “I love you, too. For the rest of my life, I’ll love you, Arthur Kirkland. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT expect to write this much for this scene! I promise I'll whittle my smut scenes down more for my later fics, but I haven't written smut in a while ^^; anyway, hope you enjoyed it now that our boys are finally together!


	6. Post-Coital Ramblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Alfred plan their future together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! It's been a VERY crazy week in America, but with the good news, I decided to celebrate by adding a new chapter lmao. Thanks for the patience!

The two men stayed in each other's arms for a while, both of them not wanting to go to sleep despite being physically and mentally fatigued. They didn’t want the moment to end, knowing that in the morning, Alfred would have to go back to work, leaving Arthur’s bed cold once more. Arthur shivered at the thought, both from the frigid air that he would soon feel while alone and because he wouldn’t be in those strong arms for much longer. So he fought the urge to sleep, practically holding his eyelids open in order to not fall asleep. Alfred had a lot more self-restraint, having had many hard nights of having to sleep with one eye open. Even though he knew he was safe in Arthur’s plush and luxurious bedroom, he was still fully conscious even though his eyes were closed. 

Arthur curled up even closer to Alfred’s side, if that was even possible. Any closer, and he’d end up inside Alfred’s skin. However, as much as he loved feeling Alfred’s seed inside him, the perfect way to end his first time and take away his virginity, he had to admit it was weird whenever he felt it shift inside him and run down his thigh as he bent a leg over Alfred. He flinched at the feeling, causing Alfred’s eyes to flutter open and reveal those ocean blues that Arthur never had the heart to separate gazes from.

“Did I wake you?” Arthur half-joked, not actually knowing whether his lover was sleeping or not. Oh, wow. _Lover_. The word seemed foreign in Arthur’s head, _especially_ since it was relating to him. _He_ had a lover. And it was no less the most attractive man on the _Titanic_ , surely. 

Alfred chuckled and shook his head, closing his eyes again. “No. I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Arthur’s dampened blond locks. “I don’t want to leave. I love you too much to pretend anymore. And to know that...that we’ll be separated in a couple of days.” 

That hurt. Both the men’s chests tightened at the same time hearing those words come from Alfred’s mouth, and as much as they didn’t want to admit it, it was true. They simply wouldn’t work. What were they to do? All they could do was say a tearful goodbye before separating, continuing on their own ways to marry a nice woman and perhaps continue their midnight trysts with some other man they fancied. That was...all they had.

“No,” Arthur said definitively, both in response to Alfred and the thoughts in his head. He pushed himself up, sitting up and staring down at Alfred. He grazed his fingertips over Alfred’s slight abs protruding from his stomach, humming appreciatively of his form. No way in Hell would he give this up willingly. 

“No?” Alfred asked, looking at his lover curiously. 

“No,” Arthur repeated with a grin. “You’ll come home with me. We’ll tell my father, he’ll surely relinquish my inheritance of the company, and I’ll steal as many jewels and as much money as I can before the guards catch me. Then we’ll be on our merry way to live in a cottage somewhere in Italy. How does that sound, poppet?”

Alfred smirked. He sat up before pushing Arthur back onto the bed, wavering over him and grinning down at his cheeky lover. “You and your hot ass nicknames. You’re lucky I feel like I’m going to pass out because then we’d have a round two,” he murmured, sending a chill down Arthur’s spine, but he kept a stony expression, not succumbing to Alfred’s sensual comments. Even after what he had done, he was still a gentleman. 

“I guess your stamina only holds up in the engine room, then?” Arthur asked innocently, cocking his head for extra effect. 

“Oh, you’re going to get it next time,” Alfred growled before diving into the crook of Arthur’s neck, nipping at the bruised skin playfully as Arthur erupted into ticklish laughter. 

“Okay, okay, I concede!” the Brit squealed, leaving the both of them glowing with laughter. Alfred rolled off Arthur back onto the bed before getting up and sitting on the edge for a moment. Once the dizziness left him, he pushed himself up onto his feet, stretching his arms over his head, giving Arthur a very attractive form of entertainment from his comfortable position on the bed. 

Alfred looked over his shoulder and chuckled once he noticed Arthur’s eyes on him, covering his bottom with his hands. “Enjoying the view?”

“Exceptionally so,” Arthur replied easily, biting his lip. Perhaps round two wouldn’t be so far away after all. Once he realized how lustful he was being, he was thankful that Alfred was covering his butt—even if it was a joke. Arthur averted his eyes and turned his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s alright.”

“‘Alright’ my ass,” Alfred said with a loud laugh as he slipped on his underwear. “I’m going to go piss and be right back.”

“When you come back, we’ll fix that vulgar vocabulary of yours, mister,” Arthur retorted with a huff and a roll of his eyes, earning another laugh from the American. 

“Okay, grandpa,” Alfred joked before disappearing into the bathroom. 

Arthur took the opportunity once he was alone to reach over and grab the box of tissues on his nightstand, pulling a few out to wipe his stomach that was covered in drying white ribbons, so he tried to get the most off himself until he deemed the need for a bath most imminent. Yet another reminder of their love shifted inside his body. It seemed as if...Arthur would have to...clean himself from the inside. He groaned, and not in the sensual way Alfred did—those groans replayed in his head as he cleaned himself out, earning himself a semi-erection very quickly. He sighed and slipped on his drawers, hopeful that it would make his extremely hormonal lower body less noticeable. He dispensed of the dirty tissues deep into the trash, covering them with clean tissues just in case Mary snooped around. Even if the first thing she would suspect was that Arthur was masturbating, it still didn’t sit right with him.

He awaited Alfred’s warm body’s return to the bed impatiently, his fingers drumming on his sticky stomach. Once he heard the bathroom door open, he looked up to see Alfred not looking at him—instead, he was staring down at photographs in his hand. Oh, Lord—those photographs!

“Alfred, don’t look—” But Alfred was quick to interrupt.

“Sshh,” Alfred cooed softly, shaking his head as he walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. The photographs were all of Alfred in silly poses, but Arthur’s favorite was the one that Alfred had his eyes on currently: a candid photo of the American staring up at the marbled ceiling, an awestruck smile on his face. It nearly made Arthur tear up if he wasn’t reminded that Alfred was looking at his private pictures. 

“Alfred,” he whined, reaching forward to try and swipe them away, but the other man was fast. 

“No, I think I have the right to look at my own pictures, don’t I?” Alfred grinned at Arthur. He turned back to the photos and shuffled through them, chuckling breathlessly. “You...you really kept all of these. What are you planning on doing with them?” 

Arthur blushed even harder at that, faceplanting into Alfred’s shoulder to try and hide his tomato face. “Make an album...keep them in a box...I don’t know. I didn’t really think. I just knew I had to remember you.”

Alfred nodded understandingly, coming to the end of the pile, and thus, reaching Arthur’s picture. Arthur immediately broke out into stutters, only to be silenced by the American. “Now this...this I have to keep.” He picked out the photo of Arthur smiling softly at the camera, the most genuine smile both Alfred and Arthur himself had ever seen on the Brit’s face—minus when he was talking to Alfred. 

Alfred turned to Arthur and placed a chaste kiss onto the tip of his nose, beaming at him. “To remember you.” 

He stood up and slipped the photo into the pocket of his trousers, which were splayed out on the floor. He returned to the bed, laying down and resuming the post-coital position they were in before, with Arthur curled up into Alfred’s side and absentmindedly tracing circles onto Alfred’s chest. 

“Continuing what you said about me going home with you…” Alfred began, unsure of where to go from there. He cleared his throat once he finally grappled with what to say, keeping his gaze forward because if he spared a glance down at Arthur, that’s when he really would be left speechless. “...Were you serious? What...what will happen to us, Arthur?” 

Arthur looked up at Alfred in surprise until his expression melted into genuine concern and sadness. He really didn’t know. He acted as if he had all the answers at that moment, but even he knew that wasn’t feasible. His father’s partners would track him down immediately, both to know where he went and to have him arrested on charges of sodomy, treason, and robbery. And not to mention what would happen to Alfred. At least his father would have the decency to give him good accommodations to try and salvage any of his reputation and the company’s, but nobody would help Alfred. Nobody. He shivered at the thought. 

“Like I said,” Arthur started, now steadfast in his beliefs, “let’s run away and elope. We’ll change our names, cut our hair, live our lives as farmers, or something along those lines. We’ll be happy, Alfred. We’ll just have us.”

With each word that came out of Arthur’s mouth, Alfred’s face only got brighter and brighter until it seemed to Arthur as if he was brighter than the sun. 

“Well, that’s the bee’s knees,” Alfred whispered, almost as if in awe of the plan. “I want that with you, Arthur. Maybe I could go to a jewelry shop and act like I’m marrying a woman, and then I could slip on that ring onto your finger.” He grasped Arthur’s hand gingerly and lifted it up, miming with his fingers holding a ring and sliding it onto Arthur’s ring finger, both of their faces heating up at the thought of them being bound for life. It wasn’t as if it was legally binding, but just the fact that they were agreeing to risk their lives and reputations for each other was the next best thing. 

“I would love that,” Arthur whispered back, tipping his chin up to press a kiss onto the corner of Alfred’s lips. “We’d have to write out vows.”

“Oof,” Alfred mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m not a good writer. Or reader. I just know enough to work.”

Arthur sat up enough to fully face Alfred and cup his face gingerly, running his thumbs over those sharp cheekbones that framed his lover’s face so well. Arthur fully believed Alfred was sculpted from clay, that God himself used His hands to make the man in front of him. 

“I’ll teach you, my love,” Arthur murmured. “And you don’t even have to write or read. Just speak from your heart.”

Alfred grinned. “I know how to do that.” And with that, they sealed their plan with a kiss, settling back into each other’s arms and continuing to plan their lives together. They talked about what type of house they would live in, where they would travel, how they would cut their hair in order to hide their true identities, and other small events in their future that had the two of them vibrating with excitement. However, there was one thing they avoided, but Alfred couldn’t keep silent about it for long. 

“I’ve always wanted a son,” Alfred stated simply, as if it wasn’t a big deal. He felt Arthur’s body go rigid in his arms, but he continued. “And I want to name him Peter.”

It was a while before Arthur spoke. What could he say to that? He didn’t want to put a damper on Alfred’s dreams, but it was impossible. Did...did Alfred even know about biology? Arthur felt guilty for thinking Alfred was dumb enough to believe he could get pregnant, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“Alfred…” Arthur started gently, not wanting to offend him. “You do know we can’t have children, right? I...I can’t get pregnant.”

Alfred spluttered nervously, his eyes going wide and quickly shaking his head. “I-I know that! I’m not an idiot! Damn, Arthur. I was just thinking out loud. Manifesting it into existence. I would really like a son. I’m sure orphanages have a ton of kids who want parents.”

“And I’d dress up as a woman, I presume?” Arthur asked, causing Alfred to burst out into laughter.

“For the record, I did not say that at all.” He ran his fingers through Arthur’s hair, pushing the hair, now dry and fluffy from the sweat before, away from his eyes and forehead to reveal that beautiful pixie face of his. “They’re probably so desperate to get rid of those kids, they’d give them away to anybody, including a single dad. I don’t know, I’m not very familiar with adoption law.”

Arthur laughed and let his eyes flutter closed from the soft touches of his hair, humming softly as they fell into mutual silence. He soon broke it with a soft chuckle. “Alright, Alfred. We’ll get you your son named Peter. And we’ll be a happy family.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”


	7. 00:00

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert, Mathias, and Alfred teach Arthur to dance. They get the hots for each other, but things don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! It's been a crazy few weeks for a college student. Thanksgiving Break is coming up, so I'll be sure to update sometime then!

Alfred awoke early in the morning, when the sun had barely peeked over the endlessly flat horizon and illuminated the black waters below. He wondered where he was for a moment since the lavish wallpaper looked nothing like the cold metal walls of his usual quarters. However, a stirring weight on his chest reminded him immediately of the events in the past twenty-four hours, and he looked down to see his lover snoring softly with his hand in a loose fist on Alfred’s pectoral, his bushy eyebrows furrowed together as he flinched at something happening in his dream. Alfred fought the urge to caress his face in fear of waking him, so instead, he slowly slipped out from underneath his fatigued lover and draped the comforter over his slumbering naked body. He didn’t know if anybody would come to check in on Arthur, but if they did, seeing Arthur naked with semen decorating his chest and the inside of his thighs would not be the most flattering thing. 

He gave into his desire to touch Arthur, leaning down and pressing a kiss onto the forehead salty with dried sweat. He smiled softly as Arthur rubbed his forehead at the tickling feeling before turning over, curling up into a fetal position. He couldn’t wait until he no longer needed to sneak away from his lover, until he could stay in bed with him all day and see those eyelids flutter open to reveal those green eyes that captivated him the first time he saw them. He tugged on his wrinkled and discarded clothes before disappearing out the door, sneaking back into his quarters and catching up on his sleep until the bell rang for the men to start their work. 

~

Some hours later, while Alfred was lugging a barrel of oil through the facility, Gilbert walked up to him with something in his hand. He quickly recognized it as a note, eerily similar to the one Arthur left him yesterday. 

“You’re quite popular, Jones,” Gilbert said with a low chuckle, handing the note to the American as he set the barrel down and took it. “Another note. Who’s this ‘Arthur’ guy?”

“You’ve been reading my notes?” Alfred asked in disbelief, causing Gilbert to snicker even more. He shook his head and scoffed, looking back down at the note. “Prick.” 

_Alfred,_

_Yesterday was one of the best nights of my life. No, it was the best. To many more, my friend. Please see me again. I can’t bear to be without you for long. Tonight at the bar._

_Your friend,_

_Arthur Kirkland_

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say this was a love letter,” Gilbert said, crossing his arms as Alfred folded the letter and tucked it in his pocket. “If it is, Arthur is a pretty manly name for a girl.”

Alfred scowled at the Prussian, shaking his head and picking up the oil barrel again. “I’m not in the mood, Gil.”

Gilbert pouted. “You’re never in the mood!” he whined, walking over and punching the barrel to the ground again, causing Alfred to let go of it and letting it smash onto the ground. It made a long echoing sound that bounced off the metal walls of the barrel and the engine room, causing a few workers to look over at the pair before going back to their work.

“Alright, you drama queen. What do you want?” Alfred groaned, crossing his arms. 

“I want to meet this Arthur guy,” Gilbert replied easily. “He sounds really interesting and uppity. I mean, look at his handwriting. He can actually read and write. Can’t say the same for you. Don’t know what he’s doing running around with you, then. Just confused, is all.”

“Fuck off,” Alfred shot back, picking up the barrel for a third time and finally setting it next to an engine in need of fueling. “No way am I bringing him down to this cesspool.” 

“Oh, you’ve got vocabulary,” Gilbert remarked, causing Alfred to frown even deeper. “Come on, Alfie. All the guys are boring down here. They’re all sad and lonely and horny. I want a change in scenery. Bring him down here for a drink. It’ll just be me and Mathias, I promise.”

Alfred thought for a moment. He was about to deny yet again, but then he remembered that he had an entire return trip with Gilbert if things didn’t work out with settling down with Arthur. He would settle down with Arthur eventually, no question about that, but legal proceedings, especially taking into consideration old money, were never easy nor speedy. So he might have to return with Gilbert, and those five days back would be hell on Earth if the Prussian didn’t get his way. And Arthur did come down once out of pure curiosity...what could go wrong? Most of the machines would be shut down except for the most foremost ones. He’d be safe. 

“Fine, you win,” Alfred said with a huff, and Gilbert jumped and pumped a fist into the air. 

“ _Ja!_ Thank you, Alfie, I’ll make sure he’s treated with the best respect,” he reassured, but that did nothing to make Alfred feel better. He just watched as Gilbert walked—rather, skipped—away, high-fiving Mathias and receiving two finger guns from the Dane. He rolled his eyes and went back to work, trusting that Gilbert—who, embarrassedly, could write better than Alfred could in his own native language—would send up a note to Arthur in return. The day went on as normal, although Alfred couldn’t help but ignore the waves of excitement crashing over him whenever he remembered he’d be seeing his lover very soon. 

The time had come, and with it, a knock on the heavy steel door. Gilbert opened it hurriedly, a big grin on his face, although that was common to see on the zestful Prussian’s face. Arthur smiled politely in return, expecting Alfred’s face, but he didn’t want to be rude. 

“Hello,” Arthur greeted. “Alfred said he wanted to meet me here? Alfred F. Jones.”

“ _Ja,_ I’m his supervisor,” Gilbert explained, leading Arthur inside to reveal a dim workplace since most of the lights were off and a majority of the workers were in bed. Only the late-night shifts bumbled around, sneaking glances at the new man clad in extremely expensive-looking clothes. 

“This way,” Gilbert said, opening a door to reveal a sizable office, and with it, Alfred sitting in a chair to the right with Mathias setting up the phonograph with a new record to the left. Mathias raised his head at the same time as Alfred, but he was much quicker in his greeting. 

“Arthur! So nice to finally meet you.” He stepped forward and took Arthur’s hand into his, giving it a rigorous shake before Alfred stepped in and practically ripped the Dane away from the small Brit. 

“Don’t tear his arm off, dumbass,” Alfred snapped protectively, but his lips held a playful smirk, and Mathias returned it with a knowing grin. Arthur was perplexed by this dynamic: Alfred was usually so gentle and kind, to the point of frustration when he would not go faster and _faster_ during—

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Arthur said, interrupting his own sinful thoughts. “I exercise.”

The three men stared at Arthur, causing him to squirm under their judgmental gaze. “Not that much, I know.”

“You’re perfect,” Alfred breathed before he realized what he was saying and quickly corrected himself. “I-I mean, everybody’s perfect in their own way, aren’t they?”

He laughed nervously, to which Arthur cringed and moved forward to sit on the edge of the desk. 

“So, what do you workers usually do down here in your freetime?” he asked, but Gilbert quickly shook his head. 

“No, you tell us what you rich people do, and then we’ll show you what us poor people do for fun.”

Arthur flinched at the dichotomy of rich versus poor, not wanting to consider himself like his father even though he knew he was surrounded by incredible wealth. He cleared his throat and shrugged, trying his best to sound humble so as not to rile up the others with the reminder of their misfortune. Just his clothing was enough to garner a few stares, nevermind mentions of tea time and finger sandwiches and bottomless alcohol while the best the workers got was dirty water and bread with margarine for their daily rations. 

“We drink, talk about the decreasing prices of stocks, talk about the increasing prices of stocks, talk about stocks, the economy—”

“Yikes,” Mathias interrupted, adding in a dramatic shiver. “I don’t think I want to be rich anymore.”

Gilbert scoffed. “Really? You’d really give up having everything served to you on a silver spoon just because you have to talk about the economy? Just say ‘mmhmm’ and nod your head and you’re good.” He turned his head back to Arthur once Mathias shrugged in acknowledgement of his criticism. “Do you rich people dance?”

Arthur was a little taken aback by the question but nevertheless nodded. “Yes, of course. Ballroom dances, like the waltz and foxtrot. They’re the most proper.” 

“Proper my ass,” Gilbert said, approaching Arthur and picking up his hand, placing a kiss to the back of it. “May I have this dance?” 

The Prussian made eye contact with Alfred and instantly regretted his choice of jokingly seducing the high-class fellow. If looks could kill, he’d have five gunshot wounds in the chest by the way Alfred was looking at him. Whatever his and Arthur’s relationship was—Gilbert could easily guess—Alfred was extremely protective of the Brit, so Gilbert dropped the flirtatious act and squared up with Arthur in order to teach him a new dance. 

“Now put your hand here—yeah, that’s right,” Gilbert said, guiding Arthur’s hands and beginning to start up the dance slowly.

“What is this called?” Arthur asked with a chuckle, trying to follow Gilbert’s ever-increasing footwork speed. 

“The jitterbug,” Alfred replied, observing Arthur closely from his seat behind the desk. Arthur shivered under his gaze, fully enjoying being perceived. He never liked being looked at since it usually meant people were analyzing his ability to manage a company or get married and have healthy children, but Alfred’s gaze was different. He wasn’t analyzing Arthur; he was admiring him like a work of art, regarding him as if he was one of the statues they stumbled across during their exploration of the trip. That was reassuring, to say the least. 

“The jitterbug,” Arthur repeated after a moment of reflecting and going on auto-pilot to follow Gilbert’s movements. “What a silly name for a dance.”

“Says the man whose entire social class dances something called ‘foxtrot,’” Mathias joked, causing the room to erupt into hardy laughter and for Arthur to chuckle politely. He wasn’t used to a room full of laughter. They were either completely silent or filled with polite conversation, the droning dull enough to get even the most hyperactive person (i.e. Alfred F. Jones) to fall asleep. It was...nice. Warm. 

“Woah!” Arthur cried out at the sudden move, nearly tripping over his own feet. Gilbert had pulled him into a spin and extended their arms out before clasping their hands together again. The dance was certainly lively, and Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep up.

“You’re not doing it right, Gil. Let me try.”

And there it was: that deep voice accented by American pronunciations that won him over the first time he heard it. It was in his ear now—when had Alfred gotten out of the chair? The dance truly had taken up all of Arthur’s attention, even when he thought most of it would be on Alfred at all times. Gilbert groaned but relented, taking Alfred’s seat behind the desk as Alfred took his place in front of Arthur. He placed one large hand in Arthur’s and the other on the Brit’s hip, his grip much tighter than Gilbert’s was, as if he didn’t want to let go of his lover for a second. 

“Okay, you’ll have to twist your hips like this,” Alfred instructed, showing off his own moves as Arthur tried to copy. The American breathed out shakily at the way Arthur whirled his hips, getting smoother and smoother and thus sultier and sultier each time he practiced it. Arthur didn’t seem to notice, too focused on getting the moves right. 

Alfred felt like a pervert because of how he was looking at Arthur, so he quickly cleared his throat and continued his instructions. “Now kick your legs out, and I’ll let you go,” he said, demonstrating the move slowly. 

Arthur, on the other hand, was going through the same silent dilemma as his lover. Fortunately for his eyes and unfortunately for his now uncontrollable lust, Alfred’s pants were extremely thin—most likely because the ship didn’t really consider uniforms for their workers an important part of the budget. Therefore, he could see...things moving underneath the fabric as Alfred danced around. He rapidly averted his eyes as his cheeks lit up, coughing into his hand. 

“Hey, are you paying attention?” Alfred asked, causing Arthur to groan internally. Couldn’t Alfred read his mind and tell that he was going through something? 

“Y-yes.”

“Great, so show me what you learned.”

The commandeering tone in Alfred’s voice certainly didn’t help. Arthur nodded and took Alfred’s hand again, and the two of them struck up a rhythm. They would swing away from each other before always coming back, their breathing becoming more ragged as their movements got faster and faster. Each time they came back to each other, they got closer until their breaths overlapped with each other, their chests so close they were radiating heat onto each other. Gilbert and Mathias were cheering on from the side, but to be completely honest, Arthur barely paid any attention to them. The two things that took up his attention now were the dance and Alfred. Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. 

He was suddenly spinning around and ended up back-to-chest with Alfred. He could feel Alfred’s hot breath on his ear, prickling the hair on the back of his neck, his chest expanding against his spine. Their arms were tangled around each other, and Arthur wasn’t sure who was whose. But it didn’t matter. The two of them were melded together as they were last night, and he desperately wanted to repeat that. 

He slowly craned his neck backwards so that his lips were lined up to Alfred’s ear, whispering, “Alfred.”

Alfred had been saying something to his friends, but the second he heard that needy voice, his head snapped front and down to look at Arthur practically bending himself over his shoulders. “Yeah, Artie?”

“I need you. Now.” 

With that, Alfred’s eyes darkened with lust. Just the sight of it was enough to get Arthur’s stomach to burst into butterflies, and he grinned in anticipation as Alfred pulled away from him and quickly said goodbye to Gilbert and Mathias, saying some half-assed excuse before grabbing Arthur’s hand and pulling him to the exit. It was a mad dash to the bar, which, like usual, had been left open by Antonio just for Arthur. 

“Here? We can go back to my room,” Arthur said between frenzied kisses, panting against Alfred’s chapped lips. His shoulders hunched up in response to Alfred gripping his rear with his big hands, and his grip on the other’s biceps tightened. “A-ah…”

“I don’t think you’d make it,” Alfred murmured in Arthur’s ear, giving his earlobe a nibble before licking a trail down his lover’s neck. “‘Sides, nobody is in here. It’s lights out.” 

Undressing was one of the lowest priorities. They were suddenly overcome with a primal need for each other, and the only fabric that was impeding them on their journey for each other were their trousers. Alfred had managed to unbutton the top of his own shirt and had slipped off Arthur’s tie before unbuttoning his shirt, but Arthur didn’t make any moves to remove it completely. 

Instead, he focused his energy on controlling his breath and trying not to squeeze the blood out of Alfred’s arms as his lover nearly ripped off his suspenders and unbuttoned his pants, pushing them down and allowing Arthur to step out of them before lifting him onto the bar counter where the bartender made drinks. With Arthur’s bottom half naked and very clearly ready, judging by his weeping erection, Alfred went to unbutton his own trousers but just left them on—too much work to take them off. He smashed his lips against Arthur’s again before separating and slipping two fingers inside Arthur’s mouth to lubricate them. 

“Alf—ngh-mmnn…” Arthur moaned around Alfred’s fingers, making sure to lick and suck on them dutifully, both to see his lover’s reaction and to make the process easier. This was still only his second time—he hardly had had the time to get used to Alfred’s shape. 

Alfred’s reaction did not disappoint. He grunted and growled ‘fuck’ under his breath, causing Arthur to twitch with excitement. It seemed as if Alfred was as impatient as the mewling Brit because he quickly removed his digits and instead plunged them inside Arthur’s entrance, feeling up the velvety walls against his fingertips. 

“A-ahn-!” Arthur yelped, clapping a hand over his mouth to not attract any attention. “Alf—Alfred...yes, there!”

Alfred chuckled darkly and made sure to massage Arthur’s spot until he had the Brit squirming on the countertop, gripping the edge of it until his knuckles turned yellow. 

“You ready?” he asked, making sure to get permission before going any further. However, if Arthur’s red face and stuttering pants were any indication, he was more than ready. 

“Please, Alfred,” Arthur pleaded, spreading his legs to make room for his lover and showing off his slender body, making Alfred’s eyes widen and his body go rigid at the gorgeous sight. Why did Arthur photograph other things when he was the piece of art? It was one of those unanswerable questions, but Alfred didn’t have time to ponder unanswerable questions. He only had the time to screw Arthur silly, and he did just that. 

Alfred pulled himself out of his trousers and lined himself up with Arthur’s entrance before snapping his hips forward, driving deep inside his lover. He let out a long, low groan at the feeling of Arthur’s walls welcoming him in once again, wrapping around him like a tight, warm, wet hug. 

“A-Arthur, fu...uck,” Alfred moaned into the Brit’s ear before letting his face fall to the crook of his lover’s neck. He sunk his teeth deep into the flesh beneath his lips, earning a strangled moan from Arthur as fingernails digging into his back in response. He lapped at the bite mark for a moment until he got the energy to continue to snap his hips into Arthur again, burying himself deep inside his lover, their hips flush against each other before pulling out and starting the rough thrusting pace up again. 

“S-so _good_!” cried Arthur, holding onto Alfred’s back for dear life as he was rammed into, sighing at the feeling of Alfred gripping his thighs and pushing them up for a better angle to thrust even deeper into the smaller man, if that was even possible. “Oh, I l-love you, Alfred. H-how—ngh!—I lo-love you, Alf...ah!”

Whether it was their voices, the commotion of them knocking over glasses and bottles of alcohol on the counter, or coincidence, somebody had heard. And they had complained to a watchman. And that watchman decided to investigate. And they had been too busy rubbing against each other’s sweaty skin to notice the door opening until a light shone on them, illuminating all the worst parts of them in that moment. 

“What the hell is going on here?” the watchman exclaimed, but when he saw Alfred’s pants down, he sighed. “Come on, lad, not here. Get your wife and go-”

His flashlight panned up to Arthur, regarding his short hair, lack of breasts, and chiefly, a penis. His mustached face fell, and his expression morphed from surprise to pure and utter disgust.

“ _Two_ lads? What are you, homos?” he yelled, causing Alfred to wince as he buttoned his pants and Arthur hurriedly pulled on his trousers, nearly falling off the counter. Once the watchman saw the situation unfold before him, he clicked off his flashlight and instead brought out two pairs of handcuffs. “You’re coming with me for gross indecency and sodomy, you poofters.”

Arthur made a move to defend them, racking his brain for any type of excuse to explain their rutting away like dogs, to explain the sweaty appearances and moaning and panting and lack of clothes. There were none. It was time to accept defeat. 

One of the many downsides of being on a ship was that there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They got lucky that the watchman that caught them fooling around with the statues thought they were just teen boys and let them off the hook with a warning, but this offense was infinitely times graver. The two men shared a glance full of despair, desperation, and hopelessness. They had done it now. Arthur had prepared for this to happen, but back when they were on dry land and able to run off and elope. They had nowhere to go. They were done.

Alfred went first, holding out his wrists that promptly were adorned with silver cuffs that cut into his skin. 

“Do me one favor,” Alfred whispered to the watchman, who was so green it looked as if he could vomit at any moment. 

“Asking me for a favor right after getting caught with your pants down with a priss? That’s rich,” he spat as he prepared the next pair of handcuffs. 

“No, please,” Alfred begged, stepping in front of the watchman so that his line of sight to Arthur would be blocked. “Spare him. Don’t cuff him. He’s first class. Just take him home and forget about it and take me to the gallows instead.”

The watchman paused and looked over Alfred’s shoulder, regarding Arthur with suspicion. “First class, you say?” he mused, stroking his mustache as his eyes raked over Arthur’s disheveled appearance. The Brit fidgeted under his judgmental gaze, nothing like the one Alfred gave him back in the engine room office. The watchman’s eyes grazed Arthur’s wrist, seeing the expensive Rolex, and the corners of his lips upturned. 

“Certainly first class,” the watchman remarked. “That watch could only belong to somebody from first class.” The man’s upturned lips contorted into a sinister smirk. “I’ve always dreamed of having a Rolex watch on my wrist.”

Arthur understood bribery very well. He had witnessed it multiple times when he was present at his father’s board meetings, and he hated it. Absolutely despised it. The watch couldn’t matter any less to the Brit, but it was a matter of principle. It felt dehumanizing, appalling to have to give something expensive up just for an ounce of freedom. What was Alfred doing, anyway? Why was he putting himself in the line of fire? Why was he saying ‘the gallows?” He wouldn’t be hanged for this offense...right? Arthur’s eyes widened at this realization, and they flickered to Alfred, who was still facing away from him and staring down the watchman. He wouldn’t let Alfred die. Over his own dead body. They had professed their love for one another, talked about their futures and children together. They either died together or not at all. 

But Alfred turned his head and gave Arthur a peculiar look. Arthur knew that look. It meant he was devising a plan, thinking of something brilliant. He had given him this look when they got caught by the statues, and that worked out marvelously. So Arthur had no choice but to trust his lover. 

The Brit sighed and unclasped his watch and held it out to the watchman, who promptly put away both the handcuffs and the watch at Alfred’s request. 

“Alright, then. You, lad,” the watchman pointed at Arthur, “show me where your suite is and who you are staying with so they can keep you situated until we arrive so you can stand trial. And you,” he swung his finger to Alfred, “you follow me.”

It really seemed as if they were stumbling to their deaths. The walk back to Arthur’s room was languid, with the both of them dragging their feet and getting scolded for it. Arthur dropped his keys a few times from how shaky his hands were until the watchman growled impatiently and grabbed them himself, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He looked around and then back to Arthur grumpily. 

“Where’s your family? Who are you staying with?” he demanded. Arthur was tempted to say ‘nobody,’ but who knew where the watchman would place him then? 

“Here,” Arthur said, pointing to a door a few doors down the hallway. The watchman harrumphed and walked over to Mary’s door, knocking on it and drawing her out in her nightly robe, rubbing her eyes. Arthur took the short time they were unsupervised to float back toward Alfred, rubbing shoulders with him subtly in order to share some affection and to reassure the American that he was there, that they would get through it. 

“I have a plan,” Alfred said with a determined nod. He smirked and looked down at his lover, his damp hair flopping into his face. He was about to brush it away, but the clinking of his cuffs in front of him discouraged him to do anything with his hands. “Don’t you worry, pretty little thing. I’ve got it.”

It was amazing how Alfred could still have a sense of humor during situations like these, where it was literally life or death. Perhaps it still hadn’t sunk in for him that he could actually die for defiling a man of higher social stature. No doubt about it—his lawyers and family would certainly spin the story to say that it had been against Arthur’s will in order to save face, that Alfred was an impoverished ruffian taking advantage of him, no matter how much Arthur denied the defense. 

Arthur smiled and nodded, trying to ignore the scream of horror coming from Mary’s door. A few people came out of their doors to investigate, but she quickly sent them away, claiming she saw a spider as her eyes swung to Arthur, his shirt still semi-unbuttoned and wrinkled; then, to the taller man beside him, who had matching wrinkled status in clothes. 

She huffed and practically ran over, grabbing Arthur by the wrist, and, without another word, took him into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. Alfred watched in a loss for words—what was there to say anyway? ‘Stop?’ ‘Wait?’ 

“Come on,” the watchman commanded gruffly, taking Alfred by the arm rough enough to leave bruises where his fingers were digging into his forearm. Alfred nearly stumbled over his feet multiple times as the watchman dragged him down the stairwell hurriedly, but of course, the man didn’t care. Before long, they reached the engine room, but this time, he went in the direction of the supervisor’s room. He threw Alfred in the room and dug in his pocket for a ring of keys, flashing them in front of the American’s face teasingly. 

“Be right back with your judge,” he said before dissolving into cackles. “Stay put, fucking piece of shit.”

He snarled before slamming the door shut, the blinds tapping against the window from the sheer force the man used. Alfred heard the lock engage, and suddenly, the room was plunged into silence. He heard departing footsteps, and once they went away, Alfred quickly searched the room for something to unlock his cuffs. He had been arrested before; he knew exactly how to break through the flimsy silver. However, a few minutes into his search, the silence of the room was broken by the worst screeching, wailing, and scraping sound he had ever heard. And it went on for minutes upon minutes, causing Alfred to shakily cover his ears with his hands, bending down since the sound even made his knees wobbly. Or was that the entire ship shaking? It couldn’t be—it was a ship! Once the sound stopped, Alfred waited for any sign or explanation as to what that could’ve been. Although he had an inkling, he did not want to believe it. He couldn’t—the ship was unsinkable. Right?

Shouts caused his head to whip up to look at the door, rushing up to it to peer through the blinds. Outside, his coworkers were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, gathering their belongings and shutting down the steam machines while Alfred was alone in a locked room with his wrists bound in front of him. Would they be able to hear him? Would he be able to bust through the door? Or would he drown? 

  
_“She’s sinking! The_ Titanic _is sinking!”_


	8. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Titanic is sinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me and this fic! It's almost over, and so is my first semester at college! Meaning I'll have a lot more time to finally finish this off. We're in the long stretch now!

It took Alfred a comically long time to process what was happening in that instant. All he could do while he stood frozen in place was look out between the shutters covering the glass of the door to see his fellow workmen running around and desperately trying to gather their things and salvage the machines. A few were running to the exits despite the supervisors pushing them to continue their jobs, either claiming the Titanic was fine or that they would stay in their stations until the very end. Alfred couldn’t hear them, but he could hear one of the supervisors, who was a stickler for rules and wouldn’t break even one, ordering the men around. However, everybody was losing steam as they bustled around the entrance, pushing and trampling over each other. 

The one thing that broke Alfred out of his spell was the cold wetness he felt at his feet, and when he looked down, he saw a thin puddle of water lapping at his boots. A scream ripped out of him before he realized it, and he immediately began to struggle against his handcuffs, trying to see if they were rusty enough to break. When he realized they were very much in good condition, he looked around the room for anything that could shatter the glass part of the door, blowing sweaty locks of hair out of his face in frustration. No, no time for emotions. Just action.

He lunged forward and grabbed hold of a paperweight on the table, testing the weight of it in his hand by throwing it up in the air a few times. It would do. The glass on the door wasn’t reinforced—it was an office. He inhaled deeply as he waded through the now ankle-deep water, preparing to swing his hand back to the best of his ability with the handcuffs, closing his eyes until a breaking sound caused him to rip his eyes open once again. 

Had he accidentally thrown the paperweight? He looked down in his hand—it was still there. So then…?

“Alfred!” 

It was a dream. It had to be. Alfred swung his gaze up from the weight in his hand to the person calling out to him. 

It wasn’t any person—it was his lover. 

“Arthur,” Alfred breathed before his instincts kicked in. He dropped the paperweight onto the floor, earning him a big splash that wet the side of his trousers, but he couldn’t have cared less. He ran forward and flung his bound arms over Arthur’s head, bringing him into an awkward but nonetheless reassuring hug by the back of the neck. “Oh, my God, Arthur.”

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, his voice muffled by Alfred’s shirt. He bent down to escape Alfred’s arm hold, flashing a key and grabbing hold of the American’s wrists. 

“I should be asking you that,” Alfred replied as he watched Arthur insert the key into the cuffs and promptly unlocking them, smiling as they fell into the water, now a long-forgotten memory. He rubbed his wrists and flicked his eyes up to meet Arthur’s green ones that flashed with concern from the swaying lamp on the ceiling. “How did you get past the officer and that lady?”

Arthur grinned and held a finger up to his mouth. “A gentleman never tells his secrets.” He then hurled himself at his lover, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug and tooth-shattering kiss, not caring for how messy and physically unpleasant it was. All he wanted was to be connected to his lover once more, to feel his skin on his after being separated for who knows how long, and with the _Titanic_ sinking, who knows how much longer. They could get separated at any instant—all Arthur wanted to do is savor the feeling of Alfred's body pressed up against his, memorize the lines and wrinkles and chappedness of his lips that provided him so much love and tenderness. 

“Now, come, we have to go above deck,” Arthur said frantically as he pulled on Alfred’s hand, looking down at the water that was currently lapping at his knees. “She’s sinking fast.”

“What happened? What the hell was that noise?” Alfred asked, following behind Arthur hurriedly as they made their way to the exits. His voice quieted down, although he was unsure if Arthur would be able to hear him over the deafening noise of the shouts of his crewmembers and the water gushing in from every open orifice in the machine room. “She can’t really be sinking, can she?”

Arthur didn’t waver in his movements, but Alfred could tell his mind was brewing with something to say.

“Iceberg,” he finally said, his movements changing from stomping through the water to wading, his teeth beginning to chatter. “I-iceberg hit us on the other side. They’re completely underwater on that side.” He looked over his shoulder at Alfred, an unreadable expression on his face. “I’m so lucky you were on this side.”

Alfred looked ahead to see a curtain of water falling from the second deck, shielding the exits. He swam forward, shielding Arthur from the water as they made their way through, only to hear a buzz and the screeching of metal. 

“They’re closing the fucking exits!” he heard a familiar voice shout, and when he turned to his left, he spotted Mathias paddling through the water to the door. His tormented eyes met Alfred’s and widened in recognition, his hand, now blue from the frigid temperature of the water, waving them forward frantically. “Al, come on!” 

“Hold your breath,” Alfred shouted over his shoulder, but before he could dive under the water, he felt a pull on his hand. 

“I can’t swim, Alfred,” Arthur shouted back in clear distress, his eyes filling with tears as he switched his gaze from his lover to the quickly closing doors. 

“Well, let’s start with the lessons today,” Alfred replied humorlessly, continuing to pull Arthur forward. “Lesson number one: hold your fucking breath!”

Arthur nodded and inhaled deeply before following Alfred and diving into the freezing cold ice water, trying to kick his legs and paddle as best he could with one hand, but Alfred was the main cause of him being able to make it under the mere three feet of space between the closing door and the ground, narrowly escaping his watery grave. Once his head cracked the water, he took a big breath only for a gush of water to fill his lungs, leaving him breathless and coughing and vomiting the water back up. 

“...rthur, Arthur, hold onto me, okay?” 

Alfred’s voice was muffled by the pounding in Arthur’s head and the frightening creaking sound of metal from the thousands of kilograms of water thrusting upon it. He couldn’t focus on anything, only on his raggedy breath and on how his body was slowly growing colder and colder and number and number. He could barely move his legs anymore. The only thing that brought him back to the present were those blues, blue as the water back when he first saw them, staring at him, paired with a mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. But the water was no longer a good comparison; the water he loved so much, admired all his life, was black and murky, viscous and imposing, sucking him in like quicksand and quashing any effort to escape the water he once wanted to become one with. 

“Alfred, Alfred…” Arthur panted as he was dragged down the hallway, thumping against the walls as his body went limp. He was a ragdoll now, going in whichever direction the water or Alfred took him. His body was shutting down; whether it was the cold water, the fatigue of running around the entire ship in search of Alfred, or a natural shock response to the situation, he couldn’t move. 

“Don’t go on me, Arthur, don’t you dare.” 

A fiery slap to his cheek sent Arthur’s body into overdrive, his legs finally beginning to kick and his arms flailing as he saw that they were almost out of the hallway and to the stairwell. 

“That’s a good boy. Now, do I have to drag your ass up the stairs, too?” 

Arthur would have slapped Alfred back for those two sentences, but he was too dazed to comprehend the situation. He weakly shook his head and stomped on the first stair above water, ribbons of water melting off his body and returning back to the growing sea below him. One foot in front of the other...yes, yes, yes. He huffed, building up the breath that had been yanked from him before. It was difficult with all the other workmen escaping bumping into him and interrupting his rhythm as they climbed up the stairs. 

“Wh...what about t-the other men? The ones trapped?” Arthur managed to ask, grateful to finally be out of that icy water. 

“Don’t think about them,” Alfred replied plainly, but Arthur could see that it was anything but plain from his expression. On his face was pure pain, and it wasn’t from the stabs of needles on his legs whenever he moved them due to regaining feeling in them from the cold water. 

“M...Mathias...and G-Gil,” Arthur mumbled, groaning at yet another level they had to climb up. 

“Only think about yourself,” Alfred continued, seemingly not having heard Arthur. He opened one of the doors, only to see they were still in third-class territory, with panicking people running down the hallways and ransacking each other for life vests. “News has spread.” 

“Mm,” Arthur hummed absentmindedly, lifting a purple hand up to somebody wearing a life vest and securing one onto their child. “We need one of those.”

“You do,” Alfred said, squatting down and pulling Arthur onto his back into a piggy-back ride. “I swear, who goes on a boat without knowing how to swim?”

Arthur laughed faintly in response, wrapping his arms around Alfred’s neck securely out of instinct. “I didn’t expect to be swimming on this trip, now did I?”

“S’pose not.” Alfred made sure Arthur was fastened in before running up the rest of the stairs, sandwiched between two men. Arthur could feel Alfred’s hot breath on his arms, could feel his chest rising and falling violently as the American pushed his body to the limit, kicking open another door to reveal first-class housing. A few people were milling about peacefully, probably curious as to what the officers were doing running around. Their heads turned as Alfred set Arthur down on the ground and rushed forward, opening one of the cabinets to grab a life jacket and rushing back to the stairwell. 

“If I were you, I’d start stocking up on life jackets,” Alfred told them before disappearing behind the door and brushing past his crew members who had the same idea as him. He kneeled down and breathed life into his hands, his hot breath helping their shivering slightly as he picked up the life jacket and secured it around the nearly-comatose Brit’s body. Once the final click echoed throughout the stairwell, Arthur came to, looking up at Alfred. 

“You need one,” Arthur remarked, pointing to the door. “Go get one.” 

“I’m fine,” Alfred said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Think you can stand?” 

“You need one,” Arthur repeated, but he obliged, standing up like a newborn fawn as he clapped his hand in Alfred’s. “Alfred, go get one.”

“Come on,” Alfred said, dragging Arthur up until the stairwell ended, breaking through to the sun deck. He grinned triumphantly, but it quickly faded once he saw the chaos that was occurring on deck. All the watchmen and officers and sailors were rushing about, trying to seem calm, but clearly, something was up. Even if Alfred didn’t know the _Titanic_ was sinking, he’d know something was wrong, and clearly, some of the first-class passengers gathered on the sun deck, clad in white life jackets, had caught on. Some of the third-class passengers and workmen had already burst through, demanding to know what was happening to the ship. 

“Hey—” Alfred called out to nobody in particular, only for the first step he took out the stairwell to be met by an explosion of panic and disorder. 

“Sinking? _Sinking_?! You said this damn ship was unsinkable, you brute!” a woman shrieked in a guard’s face, swatting him with her purse.

“Please, everybody, calm down,” the guard pleaded, holding his hands up defensively. “Let us do this in an orderly manner. Women and children in the lifeboat first.”

A crowd of people pushed toward the lifeboat, clambering forward and yelling at the guards all the while. Alfred saw a few women and children hoisted into the first boat, his eyes scanning the crowd and the rest of the deck. He saw a few guards setting up the second boat and immediately knew what he had to do. 

“Alfred,” Arthur called out, surprising the American with his seemingly lucid voice and demeanor. He pointed in the direction Alfred was just looking in, at the boat. “We have to get on.” 

Alfred looked back at him and nodded, pulling him forward only to be stopped in his tracks by a brunet with olive skin, holding up a bottle of whiskey. 

“Arthur,” the man called out, earning the attention of the Brit. His face brightened immediately, and he rushed forward. 

“Antonio! I thought I’d never see you again!” he exclaimed, but the man stopped him from moving forward any more. 

“You most likely won’t, sir,” Antonio said, handing the whiskey to Arthur. “Keep it, it’ll keep you warm.”

A smaller man with a sour look on his face saddled up next to Antonio, pulling on his shirt sleeve. “Come on, bastard. Let’s dress up as women and get on a damn boat.” 

Antonio laughed, which was a beautiful song amongst the cacophony of shouts and wails around them. He bid farewell to Arthur, winking suggestively as he pointed at Alfred before disappearing into the bulging crowd. Only then did Alfred spot Gilbert and Mathias bartering with one of the guards—or arguing, more like it. 

“You’re going to leave them here to die?” Mathias screamed, motioning to the crowd of third-class women and children wrapped in blankets but still shivering violently. “Let them on the damn boat!” 

Alfred stepped up to join in but realized his hand was left cold, and when he looked back, Arthur had gone. Now it was time to panic. He had been able to keep calm and collected when he had the love of his life by his side; he had a purpose to keep going. But now where was his purpose?

“ _Arthur!”_ Alfred shrieked, but it was drowned out by the countless other shrieks by people searching for their purposes. He turned round and round until he got dizzy, stumbling toward the lifeboat and turning to the guard. He was about to abandon the abusing of the guard until, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tuft of wild blond hair that could only belong to Arthur. And there he was, secretly hoisting women and children onto the boat while Gilbert and Mathias inadvertently kept the guards’ attention occupied. He smirked and shook his head fondly at his lover’s ingenuity, following in his friends’ footsteps and stepping up to the guard, his smirk dropping to a sneer. “You son of a bitch, put the people on the boat!”

The barrel of a gun was the next thing he processed in his vision, pointed straight at his stomach. 

“You want to keep screaming at me, buddy?” 

This was not the plan. 

“W-wait,” Alfred pleaded, his eyes going wide as he stepped back. “Pal, just let the people on the boat. They’re there for a reason.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, dirty lowlife,” the guard declaimed, cocking his gun with his finger stroking the trigger. “Any more comments?” 

A flash of long blond hair blurred past Alfred’s vision, and before he knew it, Mathias was on top of the guard, wrestling him for the gun. He looked up at the women and children, his eyes meeting Arthur in the middle of helping a pregnant woman into the boat. 

“Get on the boat, ladies! Go, go, g–”

And a shot was the next thing that assaulted Alfred’s eardrum, next to the sound of Mathias’ body falling onto the deck. Everybody was still for a moment, staring down at the Dane slowly bleeding out, his blood trickling between the boards and trailing down the slowly tilting boat. A wail was heard from the crowd as a silvery blond man broke through, flinging him at the fallen man, heaving his limp body into his lap as his tears decorated his skin quickly growing pallid. 

Alfred’s eyes flicked up to the guard, previously filled with despair but now flamed with fiery, burning anger. He looked to his side to see that Gilbert had the exact same glint of pure fury in his eyes, seeing that they both had the same idea. 

“Burn in Hell, du Stück Scheiße,” the Prussian growled before charging forward and grabbing hold of the gun, wrestling it up into the air, where the guard subsequently fired three shots into the night, before he managed to win the fight and toss it overboard, along with the guard himself. Alfred looked to the second guard, who was already reaching for his gun, and punched him out cold before he could even think of laying a hand on the arm. He looked up from his handiwork, seeing the lifeboat finally being filled up by women and children, Arthur making sure they were all secure before calmly telling the rest of the crowd to move to another lifeboat. There were shouts of protest, and Alfred ran forward to try and alleviate the tension among the people. 

“There are other lifeboats. You will sink if there are any more people on this one,” Arthur explained without Alfred ever having to say a word. He turned to the American, a blazing glint in his eyes that he had never seen before. Once Arthur gained his strength back, he wasn’t letting it slip away from him so easily. Alfred nodded and went to the ropes as Arthur took the other sides, slowly and steadily lowering the lifeboat into the water. However, Arthur’s side halted suddenly when the boat was about halfway down the side of the boat, and when Alfred looked up to see what the holdup was, he gasped and screamed out. 

Arthur screamed back and tried to shake off Mary’s grip, along with the three other men she had enlisted the help of to placate the fiery Brit. 

“Arthur, we have to get you on a boat,” Mary shouted in his ear, but Arthur was deaf to everybody’s voice except Alfred’s. He reached out, and Alfred ran after him, outstretching his arm until their fingertips met, the small touch enough to warm the entirety of his chilled body. 

“No, no!” Arthur shrieked, shaking his head and trying his best to wriggle out of the men’s grip. Alfred tried to reach him but was soon separated by the railing as Arthur was lifted into the boat, kicking and screaming, and placed right next to Mary, his kidnapper. “Alfred, Alfred! Let him on the boat! Let him on the boat, goddamn it!”

Mary looked up to observe Alfred, their eyes meeting for a brief, icy moment before she broke contact to focus on the wailing and fighting man by her side. 

“Arthur, calm down,” she cooed, but it had no effect. 

“Alfred! Alfred, love, please jump,” Arthur begged, implored, insisted. He reached over the side of the boat, nearly plummeting into the waters below before Alfred let out an indiscernible shout. 

“Stay in the boat!” Alfred repeated, reaching out only to push Arthur back into the boat as it slowly lowered. “Arthur, do this for me. Do this one last thing for me.”

Arthur’s eyes widened at the ask before being filled with tears of dread and denial, shaking his head and standing up to reach up with both arms, fighting the men on the boat that tried to get him to sit down. “Jump, Alfred, jump, you bastard! You goddamn bastard! You son of a bitch, get down here now! You’re the love of my life, there will be no ‘one last’ anything! _Get down here_!” 

“I love you, Arthur,” Alfred croaked, his throat raw from screaming and stretched by the lump in his throat to prevent himself from crying. But he knew he couldn’t attribute the white-hot saltwater dripping down his cheeks to the ocean water. 

Arthur was better off in the lifeboat. It was selfish to think he’d be able to drag Arthur around with him while the boat inevitably sank with no hope of help. Arthur was meant to live a long life. And he wasn’t about to get in the way of that. 

“I’ll see you soon, darling. I’ll be down there with you soon, I promise.” 

“ **_NO_ ** _!_ ”

And just like that, Alfred disappeared behind the railing into the bustling crowd straining against the railing to try and get seating. But Arthur wasn’t done yet. He was going to get back on that boat if it killed him. 

He shot to his feet yet again after the men managed to pull him down, marching over to the side of the boat, seeing how far the lifeboat was from the side of the ship. He saw people fleeing for their lives in the lower decks, and when he looked down, all he saw was the golden windows full of light flickering into blackness as they disappeared underneath the water. A scream passed by Arthur’s ear, and when he looked to his side, he spotted a man diving into the water below, his face contorted into one of acceptance but pure, pure fear. 

Fuck it. He wasn’t going to die in fear. If he was going to die, it was going to be in Alfred’s arms, warm and happy and fulfilled. 

He swung a leg over the side of the boat, and before the men could process what he was doing, he reached out for the rope on the side of the boat and began to swing the boat forward slightly, trying to get as close to the ship as possible. Once he was ready to jump, he wound himself up, about to pounce...until he was dragged to the floor of the lifeboat and pinned against the cold, hard floorboards. 

“You crazy son of a bitch,” a man above him spat, and before Arthur knew it, his vision faded to black as a tooth-shattering blow was dealt to the side of his head.


	9. A New Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The RMS Carpathia comes and saves Arthur, who is left disoriented and in search of Alfred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait, lovies! Finals week was HELL. But here's a little Christmas present for you guys! This marks the ending of my first fic on AO3. Hope you guys liked going along this journey with me!

Arthur awoke with a stabbing pain in his head. It felt as if his brain was fighting his skull, and he let out a groan as he lifted a hand to his face. That would surely leave a bruise, but that was the least of his problems. Had it all been a horrible, terrible nightmare? Had he passed out on the ground of the bar after a long night of day drinking? 

“Arthur, you’re awake, love.”

The wavering voice made Arthur shoot up, and only then did he feel the burning cold that set upon his body like a blanket of needles. His jaw immediately began to chatter despite the soreness in it, and his arms rose to hug around himself. 

“I thought I’d punched you too hard, fella,” the man joked, but Arthur could not have found it less funny. He looked out into the night, seeing nothing but an endless inky horizon. And no Titanic. 

“Where’s...where’s the boat?” he asked, looking over the side of the lifeboat to be met with opaque black water. 

“Gone about ten minutes ago,” Mary replied drearily, her eyes sunken and her lips chapped and bleeding. “Gone.”

“Gone,” Arthur repeated slowly before being sent into a panic again. “Alfred, gone. Alfred, gone. Oh, my God, Alfred.”

He scrambled to look over the side of the boat again, only to be met face-to-face with the white face of a dead woman, icicles having formed on her eyebrow hairs and her eyes staring directly up at him, bloodshot and unseeing. He screamed and flew backward into Mary’s lap, who hugged him close. 

“Relax, Arthur, please,” Mary murmured tiredly, her voice croaking. “A ship is coming soon. We’ll be saved soon.”

“Where’s Alfred,” Arthur asked, more of a statement than a question. He wasn’t going to give up; he was going to find Alfred if it was the last thing he did. 

“That man you were standing next to back there?” Mary asked, then cringed. “The one—the one the watchman caught—”

“Yes,” Arthur hissed. Mary must really be out of her wits, otherwise she wouldn’t have nearly revealed such a piece of sensitive information that could possibly get the men in their boat up in arms and throw Arthur overboard for sodomy. “Him.”

“Dear,” Mary started, her eyelids wavering from how fatigued she was. “He’s dead. The faster you accept that fact, the faster you will move on.” She sighed. “You knew him for only three days. Barely even that. But you’re alive, so don’t take that for granted.”

“Yeah, mate,” one of the men piped up. “Seemed like you were on a suicide mission back there. Thousands of people would have killed to have your spot. Now stop pissing me off and relax.”

But the truth was, Arthur already felt dead. The phrase ‘Alfred’s dead’ refused to stop echoing in his mind, and his hands curled into fists on his knees. He sat silently as the sailor guided them through the sea of black peppered with floating, frozen corpses. Arthur almost wished the corpses could speak. At least then the silence wouldn’t be as eerie, as full of his suicidal and depressing thoughts that were causing him to spiral. 

He shifted to sit more comfortably, slipping his hands in his coat in order to prevent them from freezing off, his breath coming out as opaque as cigar smoke. Only then did he remember the bottle of whiskey Antonio gifted him when his fingertips brushed over the glass bottle. He pulled it out, earning an immediate reaction from the men on board.

“Great find! Where’d you get that?” one asked, reaching forward to grab it, but Arthur pressed it against his chest and away from prying hands. 

“A—” He hesitated, Antonio’s carefree expression flashing through his mind. Had he lived? Most likely not. Yet another beautiful soul snuffed out. “A friend.”

“Arthur, don’t be parsimonious, dear,” Mary said, her nose a bright red. “Whiskey warms us up. Pour us all a shot.”

Of course, how shameful of him to hog such a lifesaving liquid all to himself. After he had served everybody else, he sat back with his own capful of whiskey, tipping his chin up as he downed the powerful alcohol. He winced, but that ball of fire that hurtled down his throat and into his stomach was just the final push he needed before a bright light shone upon them. When he looked up, he almost thought he was dreaming again. The  _ Titanic _ seemed to have reappeared, and with that, Arthur’s hope of seeing Alfred again. He felt tears of relief flowing down his cheeks, the hot water steaming against his chilled skin. He saw that the other people on the boat were crying out of relief as well, and Arthur turned his attention back to the giant ship. The sun had only then peeked out from behind the horizon, lighting the sky a rich array of deep purples and electric oranges and yellows. It was the most beautiful sunrise Arthur had ever seen. Except the sun illuminated more than the sky. 

“ _ The RMS  _ Carpathia  _ is here to help you!” _

And with that, Arthur fainted again. 

The next time he awoke, he was laid on the floor of a lavish dining room with several women fawning over him. His eyelids fluttered weakly, and he groaned at the pounding headache that was assaulting him. 

“Drink some water, honey,” an American woman cooed, gingerly slipping a hand behind Arthur’s head to support it as she raised a cup of water to his lips. He drank greedily, slowly sitting up all the way and downing the water until not a drop was left in the glass. He thanked her and wearily looked around, seeing fellow survivors, clad in several blankets and still in lifejackets, sitting around the dining room. Several were crying, and a few were rocking out of shock. He rubbed his forehead and looked up at the woman. 

“Where...where am I?” he asked haltingly. His voice was hoarse from all the activities from last night that still felt like a nightmare. A faraway nightmare. And Arthur still held on hope that it was just that: a nightmare. 

“On the RMS  _ Carpathia _ ,” she replied softly. “You’ve been rescued. You’re going to be okay, sir.”

Even with everything going on, the woman’s soft voice was enough to set him at ease. He leaned against the wall, his hand still cradling his head. 

“Is there a missing persons report I can file?” Even as he asked that, Arthur knew what the answer would be. 

“No.” Exactly as suspected. “But I’m sure you’ll be able to find some information when we dock.” 

And that’s exactly what Arthur hoped for as the ship turned around on its course and headed back to New York. He stayed in the same position and location the entire time, his arms wrapped around his knees as he continued to struggle to process what had transpired in the past twenty-four hours. The woman who had taken care of him before continued to dote over him, and Arthur greatly appreciated her help as it was a great distraction from his mind racing on and on about Alfred’s whereabouts. 

Once they reached port, Arthur practically shoved everybody out of his way in order to hop off the deck and onto the bridge, immediately getting soaked in a torrential rain downpour. He dove into a crowd of bystanders and reporters, pushing past them and to the police or any authority figure he could find. All redirected him to a makeshift office in one of the brick buildings, to which Arthur ran toward like a professional sprinter and demanded to know where Alfred F. Jones was. 

“Jones...Jones...Jones,” the officer mumbled under his breath as he sifted through the ship’s paperwork. “Albert Jones?”

“ _ Alfred _ ,” Arthur emphasized, his patience razor thin from the entire ordeal. He was dripping water on the linoleum tiles, tapping his foot anxiously as he watched the man flip through more paperwork for what felt like hours.

The officer’s thumb finally stopped on one paper, his eyes scanning the document until he asked, “Alfred F. Jones...crew member? Nineteen years old?”

Arthur let out a sigh of relief and nodded his head emphatically, leaning forward in his chair, his chest glowing with hope. “Yes,  _ yes _ . That’s him. Any news? Any…?”

As much as Arthur hated to admit it, he’d rather be met with Alfred’s corpse than be left hanging for the rest of his life as to Alfred’s living status. 

The officer solemnly shook his head and set down the papers. “We’re still getting everything in order. Youse all only came in today. We’re taking care of the survivors first before doing any reuniting. Come back in a few days.”

Just then, the door to the office ripped open, and the crowd of disoriented people parted to reveal Arthur’s father. 

“Arthur,” he breathed before launching himself forward and grabbing his son by the shoulder, pulling him to his feet and enveloping him into the tightest hug Arthur had ever gotten from his father. Once they separated, Arthur immediately melted into the embrace despite not being accustomed to the sudden onslaught of affection, that affection being the exact thing he needed at that moment. 

“My son, you’re alive,” his father sobbed, both of them burying their faces into each other’s shoulders. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

Arthur let out shuddering sobs, muffled by his father’s coat. 

The rest of the day was a blur, as well as the next few days after that. The entire time, it seemed as if Arthur had taken a vow of silence with how quiet he was. He stayed in his room at his father’s house the entire time, staring out the window at the bleak, gray, American sky. The sky he should be enjoying with Alfred. Alfred should be sitting right beside him on the bed, should be pointing out how that cloud formation looked like breasts or the other looked like a penis. The silence in his room hurt, especially when his imagination so realistically recreated Alfred’s voice to whisper sweet nothings into Arthur’s ear. He could’ve sworn he felt Alfred’s chest against his back, but when he looked over his shoulder, all that was there was the bare wall of his bedroom and his reflection looking back at him in his vanity mirror. He looked tired and emaciated. If only this love for Alfred was just what Mary told him it was: a mere three-day infatuation that disappeared as quickly as it appeared. 

She came around to leave meals at his door and speak to his father about what happened. His father stopped visiting him as much after the reveal of what the watchman had told her about Alfred and Arthur being together that night, and when he did come to see his son, his eyes were unseeing, refusing to look Arthur in the eye. 

“Father,” Arthur said after nearly a week of people coming and going from his room. His father was filling up his glass of water when he turned his head to acknowledge his son. 

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Please find my friend,” he asked, his tone holding no emotion. “Please find him.”

Arthur’s father took a while to answer, hunched over the glass of water with his eyes perched on the nightstand. “Is this that friend of yours that Mary spoke about?” 

Arthur hesitated. “Yes.”

Arthur’s father stood up straight and walked over to Arthur, who was sitting in his rocking chair facing the window, the same position he hadn’t moved from in days. He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, gripping it reassuringly. 

“Alright, son. His name?”

“Alfred F. Jones.”

Arthur’s father walked over to the door, and just as he was about to shut it, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll make a few calls.”

And with that, the door shut.

It was only a day later when Arthur’s father burst into his room, grabbing Arthur by the wrist and yanking him to his feet. 

“Get dressed. I believe we’ve found him,” he informed, and that was all Arthur needed to hear before he ushered his father out of his room to get dressed. He followed his father into a car that drove them to a nearby hospital, giving Arthur an insurmountable amount of hope. His chest bloomed with it, glowed with it. That meant Alfred was okay. That meant they had found him and were taking care of him, right? 

However, the deeper and deeper his father led him down the bowels of the hospital, the more that hope faded. And it all but disappeared once they turned a right down a hallway labeled ‘morgue.’

“W-why are we down here?” Arthur asked, but his father remained silent. They reached a section of the wall that was just glass with blinds covering it, to which Arthur’s father rapped on it with his knuckles. 

“Open up,” he ordered, and just as he said, the blinds lifted to reveal a covered body on a slab. All of Arthur’s breath dissipated from his lungs, leaving him purple-faced as he analyzed the shape and build of the body. It couldn’t be Alfred. He wasn’t this...bloated. 

However, once the medical professional uncovered the torso…

“Let me in,” Arthur said quietly. Next, he screeched with all the force in his lungs, “ _ Let me in _ !”

He pounded on the glass with his fist until the door to the room was opened. He sprinted inside and to the body’s side. The body of his lover. The body of Alfred F. Jones.

“Is it him?” Arthur’s father asked, hovering in the doorframe, but Arthur was left speechless. 

“He was found covering the body of a child on top of a piece of debris. His body heat is most likely what kept the child alive until they were found by watchmen. He had passed away by that point from hypothermia,” the medical professional informed, but none of it registered in Arthur’s ears other than the word ‘child.’

“A child?” he squeaked out, his voice completely gone. He couldn’t rip his eyes away from Alfred’s purple body, his skin a sickly green and blue, his crusted-over eyes closed, his limp hair spread across the cold metal slab. 

“Yes, a child,” the medical professional replied. “We’re still trying to reunite him with his parents.”

Arthur fell onto Alfred’s cold, cold body, laying his cheek against his chest as he did all those days ago where they lay beside each other in bed, naked with nothing but their love to cover them. Back then, he heard that rhythmic thumping that gave him a reason to live. Now, he heard that barren silence that had populated most of his time these tortuous days. Alfred was dead. Alfred F. Jones was deceased. 

“Let me see the child,” Arthur pleaded, his lips trying their best to reinvigorate Alfred’s skin by breathing his hot breath over it, to no avail. 

“Sir, please get off the cadaver.” 

_ “His name is Alfred! _ ”

Arthur let out another wail, his tears falling and sliding down Alfred’s taut skin until they gathered at his sternum in a small puddle. He was gone. Gone for good. 

Arthur refused to leave his post until security guards came and dragged him out after nearly an hour of quiet sobbing. Once he was returned to his house, he remained in his room as always, staring out the window at the sky that he was supposed to be sharing with his beloved. He wondered if Alfred was watching over him, watching him through the thick clouds that brought nothing but dreary rain. He thought he had escaped England, but apparently not. He turned to make that joke to Alfred, but…

And yet another crying session racked his body, leaving his eyes raw and bloodshot. 

“Father,” Arthur said after a few days. “What of that child that that man mentioned?” 

“The one that—” Arthur’s father held his tongue and nodded. “Yes, and what of him?”

“What happened to him?” Arthur asked, gripping the blanket laid across his knees. “Did he find his parents?”

Arthur’s father paused and walked over in front of his son, getting in the way of his view of the outside. “No. Either they’re still lost in the system, or they’re dead.” 

Arthur stayed silent, staring through his father and still at the window. “What’s his name?”

“Peter.”

A jolt, heavily resembling a lightning bolt, shot down Arthur’s spine. All of his goosebumps raised up, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on point. This was a sign. This was Alfred’s soul, still alive and well in this realm. And it manifested itself in that boy, Peter. 

“I want to meet him,” Arthur said, nibbling the side of his finger. “Please. I want to see him.”

Arthur’s father cleared his throat and nodded. “Alright.” 

Arthur only left the house twice: to go to Alfred’s funeral, where he pleaded for his father to bury him in one of the best plots available with a marble tombstone, and to visit his father’s office where Peter would also be visiting. Once he arrived at the office, Arthur opened the door and was immediately greeted with a tuft of golden blond hair, and out of instinct, he reached forward to stroke them as he would have had it been Alfred. But no, it was the head of Peter. 

“Are you Arthur?” The boy had the sweetest voice, Arthur needed to take a step back. He sounded exactly like Alfred despite the English accent. And he looked exactly like him, too. From the golden blond hair to the blue eyes Arthur had fallen in love with at first sight...it seemed as if he was falling in love again. 

“Yes,” he breathed, squatting down to the boy’s height. “My name is Arthur Kirkland. I was on the  _ Titanic _ as well. My...my friend is the man who saved you.” 

Peter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head, and a shaky hand came up to cover his mouth. “Your friend is Alfred?”

Hearing somebody else say his name was a nice reminder that he wasn’t just a figment of Arthur’s imagination, that he had been a real person that saved a boy’s life and who knew how many others. 

“Yes,” Arthur repeated with an emphatic nod. “Yes, and yes. But...but you haven’t found your parents yet, have you?”

He promptly regretted asking that because at the mere mention of the word ‘parents,’ Peter’s eyes welled with tears, and his small hands balled into fists at his side. 

Arthur jumped to move on, saying, “B-but, you wouldn’t mind staying with me until you do, would you? I would hate to have you sleep another night in those uncomfortable cots in the police station.” 

Peter went silent at that, the tears no longer forming, but his stare was still as unsettling. He bit his lip and looked off to the side, but before long, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said in that soft voice of his that made Arthur’s heart soar. 

“You know,” Arthur started, reaching forward to hold Peter’s small hand in his, “Alfred said he always wanted a son named Peter.” 

Peter’s face brightened. “Really? That’s my name!”

Arthur chuckled and nodded. “Yes, yes it is.” He paused before adding, “And he got me to start dreaming about that as well.”

It seemed impossible for Peter’s face to brighten any more, but it was illuminated like the sun. “You want a son named Peter? But then you’d have to take care of two people named Peter!”

Arthur’s eyes widened, his brow raising inquisitively. “What do you mean, Peter? We still have to find your parents.” 

Peter shook his head, his expression going stony again. “They’re dead. I know it. Mommy’s dead. I saw her slide off the deck with Papa. They were wearing life jackets, but still.” 

Arthur didn’t know what to say to that. All he could do was reach forward and pull Peter into a gentle hug, listening to his soft cries and threading his fingers through that thin blond hair. And there they stayed, wrapped in each other’s embrace until Peter calmed down, and Arthur led him back home, where he showed him his new bedroom. 

Months later, Arthur still made daily visits to Alfred’s grave. It was overrun with new and old flowers, all laid there by him. He had tried to find Alfred’s brother, to no avail. He didn’t have any plans on going back to England because then he’d be too far away from Alfred, which he wouldn’t dare do. He could barely go on with his day if he didn’t wake up and head straight to Alfred’s grave. He’d tell Alfred about how he had started calling Peter his son now, and only a few days before had gotten an adoption certificate for him, officially deeming him Peter Jones-Kirkland. His father hadn’t been too keen on the last names, but Arthur couldn’t care less. Because those two last names meant one last tie to Alfred, to make sure he wouldn’t go forgotten, that he would live on through the son he had always wanted. He told him about what a naughty child Peter was, and if Alfred was here, he’d give Peter a good talking to. 

“I simply don’t have the strength to lecture him, Alfred,” he would say. “Give me your strength.”

Then the next day, when Peter would draw on the walls, Arthur would miraculously have the courage to sit Peter down and lecture him thoroughly about destroying other people’s property. 

Arthur never married. Peter was enough to keep him busy, as well as the other orphans he adopted along the way: two girls named Amelia and Alice, both adopted into the Jones-Kirkland family. He had enough to go by with his insurance payout from the  _ Titanic _ tragedy and from his father’s business, which one of his brothers had taken over begrudgingly. But he was no more than a small blip in their spendings, having chosen a small cottage on the outskirts of New York, still a car ride’s distance from Alfred. He grew his own food and livestock, bought everything secondhand or cheap, and spent all the leftover allowance on his children and Alfred. 

All the time he spent in a rocking chair by the window, overlooking the Atlantic Sea, the same sea that had given him so much and taken it all away. And every so often, after he’d come back home after visiting Alfred and settling into his usual place, he’d see the faint outline of Alfred’s body walking along the beach, carrying his flip flops in one hand and kicking up sand with his feet. He’d turn to Arthur, wave, and grin, his eyes as perfect a blue as the ocean behind him. Just like the day Arthur first saw him. 


	10. Three Years, Two Hours, Twenty-Three Minutes, and Thirty-One Seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending. :)

What had transpired in the early hours of the 15th of April seemed like a faraway nightmare for Arthur, like a childhood fear that he would go cry to his mother about. However, it was anything but. As he sat in the police agency, among the bustling survivors, reporters, and family members, he was constantly reminded—whether it was an arm bump, a notepad shoved in his face, or a look of pity thrown his way—that what he had just lived through was a history-making tragedy. However, he couldn’t care less about the ship sink. To hell with the stupid ship. He never liked it anyway. The real tragedy that had occurred was the brutal taking of his lover, of the love of his life. Anybody would be quick to criticize that a relationship that lasted less than five days wasn’t anything to mourn over.

But Alfred F. Jones was everything that Arthur had ever wanted in life. Before then, he was merely coasting along in life, waiting until his father got tired of having an unwed son and matched him up with a baroness or pretty lady of the same social stature, and he’d overtake the family business and have a couple of runts, born from less than desirable intimacy. The only intimacy he craved now was Alfred’s warm hand in his, to guide him out of this horrid situation and out into the beauty of New York. If Alfred was with him, Arthur would easily be able to put this whole affair behind him, after all the insurance and journalists were settled down. It was a bit selfish—if not entirely unsympathetic—but Arthur couldn’t survive without his Alfred. What was the point of continuing to live without the person who introduced him to living in the first place?

Alfred was a breath of fresh air, and now Arthur was floundering to remember how to breathe again.

So when his father announced that his connections had found a 19-year-old crewmember with blond hair, Arthur nearly vomited. From what, he didn’t know. He couldn’t pinpoint the emotions he felt in that moment, nor when they descended into the belly of the hospital and turned a corner labeled ‘morgue.’ No, the emotions he felt as his boots clicked against the linoleum were indescribable, never mind when the medical worker opened the blinds to reveal a covered body on the metal slab.

Arthur covered his mouth to prevent bile from spilling out, but the only thing that prevented it from climbing up his throat was the fact that the body was…misshapen, to say the least.

“They say bloating occurs once the body has been submerged in water for a while,” his father noted, almost as if reading his mind.

But that couldn’t have convinced Arthur even if his father believed his own supposition. Alfred’s body, even being bloated, would not have had a massive beer belly, for one, nor would he have shrunk four inches, even in the coldest of waters. Still, Arthur pushed forward and pounded on the door with his fist until the medical worker opened the door, causing the Brit to nearly tumble onto the floor. Once he regained his balance and dusted off his waistcoat, he rushed to the cadaver, his fingertips ghosting over the paper cover.

“Sir, let me do it,” the medical worker said, reaching forward and slowly pulling back the cover until it bunched around the cadaver’s waist, revealing…a man who absolutely, definitively, undeniably, was not Alfred F. Jones.

A cry of relief ripped out of Arthur’s throat without him even registering it, doubling over with his hand gripping his chest as if his heart was about to jump out and slide across the floor. It didn’t even matter what the man looked like—without that famous cowlick, golden hair, and fit body, it was all too clear that that man was not the love of his life. Arthur didn’t even need to see him with his eyes open because he’d be able to recognize Alfred’s eyes even if they were closed. He had studied them as the American slept, which had been the most entertainment he had since he was a child.

“Oh, is it him?” his father asked, and Arthur emphatically shook his head. As much as he mourned the man’s death, and he was sure his family would be devastated, he couldn’t have been more thankful that it was this man on the slab. Call him selfish again, he couldn’t care less. He needed his lover. His ocean-eyed American.

But another wave of nausea crashed over him. If that wasn’t Alfred on the slab…where was he? Arthur had to admit to himself that he would much rather have Alfred’s dead body than nothing at all. So, once he finished vomiting into a nearby trashcan and was practically carried back home, his mind began racing with ways to find his beloved Alfred. He’d check the police station every day and pester his father for help if it meant any leads.

None.

Not one lead.

For two months straight, Arthur made his daily pilgrimage to the police station, switching out the worn-out and dirtied missing person papers with new ones. All the pictures he had of Alfred were at the bottom of the Atlantic. He didn’t even have a picture to pass these days by. Not one single one. However, he was thankful for his excellent memory since Alfred’s blinding grin in his favorite picture of him was seared into his mind, and his bedtime routine would consist of him staring up at the dark ceiling as if the picture was right in front of his eyes.

Two months turned into two more months, which turned into a year, which turned into two more years. Each day being worse than the next because there was no Alfred to make it better. Arthur visibly aged in those three years, the dark circles under his eyes looking like the soot coming out of the smokestacks. Wrinkles slowly appeared on his forehead from him constantly furrowing them in anger, sadness, and befuddlement. He was starting to look like people from the working class who had to spend all their time toiling in the sun and had no access to moisturizing creams. It wasn’t as if Arthur was using them, either; he was too busy analyzing police records and _Titanic_ witness statements.

It happened so suddenly, though, that Arthur thought he was dreaming. He had a habit of that. These past three years passed by so fast, mostly because Arthur couldn’t differentiate between his dreams/nightmares and reality. Which only made walking into that bodega that more surreal.

After three years of doing nothing but using up his father’s money and not giving any of it back, Arthur’s father put his foot down and told Arthur to either help him with the family business or move out and get his own job. It had been long enough for Arthur to get over his loss. He had enough time to mourn. But for Arthur, the mourning never stopped. He never stopped thinking about Alfred, especially since everything reminded him of the missing American.

Until he was in the Bronx, which was a far cry from Upstate New York. He needed to get away from the stuffy offices and horribly fake businessmen for one day. His father would usually send a car after him as if he was an escapee, but the last place he’d send a car would be in the Bronx since he was afraid he’d never get it back. So Arthur, in his fancy breeches, waistcoat, and wool overcoat, stuck out like a sore thumb among the native New Yorkers, who stared at him with a mix of awe, resentment, and hunger (presumably for his wealth and belongings). He didn’t care if he got robbed, so long as he kept his life afterwards. Even then…he wasn’t having a very fun time living. At least he’d be with Alfred since he had been presumed dead a long time ago.

But Arthur never gave up hope. Whether this dutiful hope manifested itself or it was out of pure luck, Arthur walked into a bodega since his stomach was growling for a nice sandwich and, instead of being met with the savory smell of bacon and egg sandwiches, was met with the howling, eerily familiar laughter of a man at the butcher counter. He was naturally drawn to it, bumping into several people and barely audibly apologizing, his mind elsewhere. Once he turned a corner to the butcher counter, he had to rub his eyes to make sure the daydreams and regular dreams he had at night weren’t happening during the day now, or else his father would surely have him committed to a mental hospital.

There, behind the butcher counter, was the head of golden hair that he had been searching for for years, often pulling aside a complete stranger mistakenly out of instinct because he thought they were Alfred. Underneath that mop of golden hair, which was arguably a lot longer than before, hid those ocean blue eyes, shadowed by his long bangs. The same eyes he fell in love with three days to the day. It was April the 10th, which made being stuck in some corporate building even more unbearable. Every year, on the anniversary of his heart being captured by another, Arthur would crawl into bed and not come out until either his father dragged him out or the sun rose yet again on a new day.

But no. The blue eyes he had been seeking for three whole years were in front of him, sparkling as they squinted from how wide that beautiful mouth was grinning.

All breath was sucked out of his lungs, leaving him to double over as he kept his eyes trained on the loquacious American he had been searching for for three whole years. He was scared that if he looked away—or even blinked—that he’d disappear like in the endless hallucinations and dreams he’d have of him. And yet, when he blinked, blinked, and blinked again, he was still there, chatting away happily with a stranger as if the love of his life wasn’t currently having a heart attack only a few feet away.

Except, it seemed as if he could sense it. Because only a few seconds later, his eyes flicked away from the man and fell upon Arthur Kirkland. Their eyes connected and said more than their mouths ever could. They said more than they could ever say in their lifetimes.

One second, Alfred was behind the counter; the next, he was outside at the back of the supermarket with Arthur in front of him, the two of them simply staring at each other, neither of them moving a muscle. Three years. Three years, two hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-one seconds after they had first set eyes on each other. Three years, two hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-one seconds too long.

“Arthur.”

“Alfred.”

And their lips were on each other—desperately, hungrily, frantically, until Arthur was weak at the knees from lack of oxygen. He was also weak at the knees at how hard he was sobbing, clutching Alfred’s shirt peppered with animal blood in his fist. He couldn’t care less about the blood. It was laughable how much that didn’t matter. Arthur had the love of his life in his hands, on his lips, in his arms, alive and well and radiant and oh so alive.

“I-I thought—“

“You were—“

“Dead, and I—“

“Looked everywhere but I couldn’t—“

“Find you, and I—“

“We found each other.”

Alfred corrected Arthur, his hands roaming Arthur’s body without either even knowing—all he needed was to touch Arthur, to know that this wasn’t a dream, that he was all flesh and bone and muscle and love.

Alfred clocked out immediately (as in, he just tossed his apron and sped off) and the two of them ran to a nearby hotel, where they could talk in peace and privacy. They spoke for hours upon hours until the sun was gone and made love until it came up again, Arthur needing to pinch himself multiple times throughout it to make sure it still wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t. It was all real.

“I love you,” Arthur gasped as they were nearing their third release of the night together. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I—“

A gasp cut him off as he finished on both of their chests, Alfred finishing inside him not too long after. Arthur had missed that feeling of fullness, of knowing that evidence of Alfred’s love was inside him. He would have never admitted that before, but now, he would say everything and anything to Alfred if it meant he would know just how much Arthur loved everything Alfred had to offer him.

“I love you,” Alfred whispered against Arthur’s lips before falling onto his back, needing some time to recover before they went at it again. He wanted consummate their love as many times as he had dreamed about it all these years—which was a lot.

After a few minutes of catching their breaths, Arthur turned and climbed on top of Alfred, burying his face into the crook of his lover’s neck.

Lying naked with their chests pressed against each other, they simply stared into each other’s eyes in silence, breathing in tempo. Their sticky chests separated when they exhaled and came together again when they exhaled, their hearts touching, only separated by a few bones and inches of skin. They were finally connected once again. Three years, two hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-one seconds.

Once Arthur could walk again, which was two more days after since Alfred made good on his promise to himself to make up for all the sex they could’ve done in those three years, they left the hotel to somewhere Alfred said was very special to him. This wasn’t the first time Alfred had left the hotel, though. Periodically, three times a day, he would leave under the guise of getting them food (even though it took him over two hours to come back with food), and come back with a trinket or other than looked like a child made it.

“I’ll tell you later,” Alfred would say. Now was later, and as Alfred led Arthur deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Bronx, he had an inexplicable feeling rising up inside him.

“I want you to meet someone,” Alfred said, getting out a rusted key and putting it in a matching rusty lock, which Arthur presumed hardly protected anybody from getting in. He’d have to get Alfred out of this cesspool soon before anybody got any ideas of bursting in and killing him over the meager possessions he had, revealed to him when Alfred swung the door open.

“It better not be a lover you had while you were looking for me,” Arthur joked, which caused Alfred to pause and look over his shoulder.

“That’s the worst thing you could’ve said to me,” he said, half-joking, but a hint of seriousness laced his tone. He never even considered the possibility of having another lover, never mind actively pursuing one. It wasn’t as if it was easy finding somebody who fancied men, even in such a big city as New York. If they did, they were either highly disturbed or riddled with diseases.

They both stepped into Alfred’s incredibly small apartment, which resembled a basement rather than an actual living space. But none of that mattered because at the rotten dining table sat a blond-haired child that looked exactly like Alfred with eyebrows and unruly hair exactly like Arthur. He was focusing hard on a paper on the table, tapping a gnarled pencil against his lips until Alfred’s whistle caught his attention. He turned his head, and Arthur gasped at how his eyes were an exact replica of Alfred’s. They were as blue as the purest ocean, as bright as the brightest sapphire. And they were staring right at him.

He couldn’t be any older than ten. Arthur looked over at Alfred and raised a brow.

“Don’t tell me this is your secret love child you kept hidden from me,” he said, and although it sounded like a joke, it couldn’t be further from one. He was having a genuinely hard time fathoming who this child could be, until—

_“He was found covering the body of a child on top of a piece of debris.”_

“I saved him.” Alfred’s voice cut into the eerie echo sounding off in Arthur’s ears, and his unfocused eyes focused on his lover once again.

“His parents died, so I just took him, covered his eyes, and got off the boat,” Alfred said with a shrug as if that wasn’t the most traumatizing thing Arthur had ever heard. “I knew you would be safe, so I tried to save as many people as I could. I really thought I would be dead by the end of the night. But we kept each other alive.” He smiled softly. “And I guess I didn’t want to die without seeing you one last time.”

Arthur was at a loss for words. It was nearly a minute later that he squeaked out, his voice gone, “What’s his name?”

“Peter,” the child replied, hopping off the chair and treading hesitantly over to the blond stranger in front of him. “Who are you? Papa, who is he? Why is he wearing fancy clothes?”

Arthur’s eyes bulged at that. He whipped around to face Alfred, his mouth opening and closing to try and form a question.

“He started calling me that about a year after I took him in to live with me,” Alfred explained, a bemused glint in his eyes. “I didn’t want to give him up to the police because they’d just put him in a stuffy orphanage until he’s eighteen, and then he’d be kicked out onto the street. At least with me he has a bed. Sure, it’s on the floor, but it’s a bed. And he has love. I doubt the—ahem—women at those orphanages would be able to offer the same to him.

“And he was only five when I saved him,” Alfred further explained. “So I guess I grew on him.”

He turned to address Peter now, slipping his hand in Arthur’s as he squatted down to Peter’s level.

“This is my very special friend, Arthur Kirkland,” Alfred explained in a straightforward voice, unlike the baby-talking people usually did with children. “You know how mommies and daddies love each other, right? Like the ones we read about in books?”

Peter made a disgusted face. “Like, kissing?” He had a slight English accent, but Arthur could tell that growing up for so long in America was starting to take a toll on that darling accent of his.

Alfred chuckled and nodded. “Yes, that and more. I love Arthur like that.”

Peter stayed silent, looking between the two of them before his face broke out into a giant grin. He pointed to Arthur and shouted, “So that means you’re also my papa!”

For the millionth time over these past few days, the breath in Arthur’s lungs were fully evaporated, leaving him gasping for air. It was as if the finger pointing at him turned into a fist and punched him straight in the gut.

“Y-your…”

“Now, Peter, you just met him—“

“Yes,” Arthur interrupted, squatted down to join Alfred at Peter’s level. “I want to be your papa, Peter, if you’d let me.”

“You talk like me,” Peter pointed out, reaching up to ruffle Arthur’s hair. “That means we’re related, yeah?”

That caused Arthur and Alfred to laugh, and their hands squeezed together closer.

“Yeah, Peter,” Arthur replied with a nod. “Yeah.”

Arthur called up his father and explained where he had been for the past few days, needing to hold the receiver away from his ear since his father was screaming at him so loudly. He had sent out a search party for Arthur, wasting nearly one hundred dollars one him. Which made it even harder for Arthur to request something, but he needed to take Alfred and Peter out of that hovel as quickly as possible.

Apparently, Alfred had been working multiple jobs at the same time while doing odd jobs on the side to be able to afford that hovel and hire a tutor to come by once every two weeks (since that’s all he could afford) to help Peter with his homework and lessons.

“I can’t read too good,” was what Alfred said as he explained his living situation, showing his handwriting to Arthur and the picture books he bought for Peter. “He’s so smart, Arthur. He’s reading better than I am. He’s gonna go to college, Arthur. I’d bet money on that.”

As it was, that was no need. Once Arthur managed to squeeze a few hundred dollars out of his personal account and promised his father he’d work at his company, he bought a beautiful apartment at the top of a tall building, allowing them to overlook the city and see the sun rising and setting each day to remind them that this was real life and that it wasn’t a dream. It was not a dream.

Alfred and Arthur continued to act like roommates, but everybody knew the secret. But due to Arthur’s high-ranking position in his father’s company and his father’s numerous dangerous connections, they didn’t have the courage to mess with them. Alfred didn’t feel comfortable having Arthur earn all the money (having worked his entire life, and he wasn’t about to stop just when his life was beginning), so he got a menial job at a munitions factory. Things were starting to look rough in Europe, rumors of the U.S. joining the war causing factories to ramp up production and look for new workers.

Peter was excelling at school, being both naturally smart and having all the tutors he needed since Arthur provided everything Peter needed to shine in academics. He went onto college, kissing his fathers goodbye before leaving for Massachusetts. He never stopped calling Alfred his Papa and Arthur his Daddy.

They were now more aged than when they first met their son. Alfred was still in the prime of his years, merely twenty-nine years old. Arthur, now thirty-two, was showing signs of wear and tear, especially with all the stress with dealing with his father, incompetent workers at his job, and Peter’s temper tantrums throughout the years. But he was still in his prime. People were still having children at his age, little infants they could hold in their arms, even if they usually had them a decade younger. He never got to see Peter as an infant.

“Alfred,” he said one night while they were in bed, setting down the newspaper and sliding off his reading glasses. He turned his head, waiting for Alfred to finish a crossword and make eye contact before unloading a bomb. “I want another child.”

Alfred’s breathing slowed, and his eyes dropped down to Arthur’s stomach before meeting his gaze again.

“You know that you can’t get pregnant, right?” He smirked and set down his newspaper, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist. “Although, we can certainly try.” (He had been listening in on Peter’s tutoring sessions and picked up a fancier vocabulary, using it whenever he could to show off).

Arthur pushed Alfred off him with a huff, crossing his arms. “That’s not what I meant.”

Alfred’s face fell. “So, no sex?”

Arthur frowned and turned over, hiking the blanket up to his ear. “If you keep that up, you’ll be sleeping on the couch.”

“No, no,” Alfred whined, pawing at Arthur’s shoulder to get him to turn back. “I was kidding. Now come on, look at me. What do you mean, another kid? We have Peter.”

Arthur sighed and turned over, sitting back up against the headboard. “I just feel…I don’t know, a pull in me. I see women at the park with babies, and…we just never got to see Peter that way. We became parents so young. We have a grown child, and most people are only starting families by now.”

Alfred pondered Arthur’s thoughts for a moment before replying, “So your biological clock is ticking.”

A pillow to the head.

“Compare me to a bloody woman again, and there will be more where that came from,” Arthur threatened, turning over yet again. “I should’ve known better than to talk about this with you.”

“No, no,” Alfred repeated, scooting down and pressing his chest against Arthur’s back. “Okay, I’m serious. You really want another kid?”

Arthur nodded, burying his face into his pillow. “I miss having children’s footsteps in the house. Miraculously, I miss having to clean crayon off the walls.” He let out a short chuckle.

“I’ll get you that kid, Arthur,” Alfred mumbled against Arthur’s ear, giving the shell a kiss. “I promise you that. We’ll have as many kids as you want.”

That lit something inside Arthur. He reached back and between Alfred’s legs, giving him a squeeze.

“Perhaps…I can amend my past hesitations on intercourse,” Arthur mumbled, a smirk growing on his face as he felt Alfred’s breath cease to hit his ear and a grin grow on his lover’s face.

“Stop talking like that and let’s try to get pregnant.”

“I said—get off me, you heathen! No! I— _ooh…_ ”

They did not get pregnant, no matter how hard Alfred tried. However, one day, Alfred brought home a haggardly woman from the street, very clearly pregnant. Her hand protectively laid over her stomach as they sat on their pristine couch, looking at the two of them with a guarded expression.

“So you two—men?” she asked critically, pointing between the two of them.

They explained how they already had a child in college, showing her pictures of him, and motioned to their beautiful home as further evidence of their parental skills. The woman was still extremely wary of them and their homosexuality, but her need to have her child in a safe home outweighed her moral objections.

On the fifteenth of April, five days after the damned ship set sail, the woman—named Emily—gave birth to a healthy girl she named Alice. Alfred claimed to be her husband and Arthur her brother in order to get into the maternity ward, and when they saw Alice, they cried until they had to stop in order to hold her and not get tears all over that fresh face.

Arthur rocked with her all night while Emily recovered, and all he could do was stare at that soft, veiny face with plump cheeks and a drooling mouth. She had the warmest brown eyes that curiously looked everywhere whenever they were open, finally settling on Arthur whenever she woke up from a nap.

“She’s gonna be an energetic one,” Alfred predicted when they brought her home and stood over her crib, watching her chest rise and fall. “That’s what Emily said. Alice wouldn’t stop kicking her throughout her pregnancy. And look at those eyes.”

“Those are your eyes,” Arthur said, reaching down to stroke Alice’s cheek. She stirred but didn’t awaken, her tiny hand reaching up and wrapping around Arthur’s finger and giving it a tight squeeze.

“But they’re brown.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Arthur whispered with a slow shake of the head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Alice met her new brother during the summer, and the two of them played with her wooden toys as Alfred and Arthur watched over them proudly. They took them on picnics, to Coney Island, the beach, and all the places they could think of. Alice grew up beautiful, resembling her mother each year she got older. Emily dropped by every other year to say hello to her daughter and give her a gift before going off to do whatever she did in her life. But as much as Alice appreciated her mother’s visits, she knew who her real parents were.

She, too, went to university. However, even with Arthur’s status as the head of the company after his father passed away, she was only able to get a job as a secretary at her father’s company, especially since they were still in a horrible recession and she was a woman.

The recession, as well as another child and regular aging, took a toll on the two men. Arthur was now fifty, with nearly half his head turning gray. Alfred had tried to pluck out as many gray hairs as he could, but they grew back as quickly as they appeared. They had wrinkles at the corners of their eyes and mouth with how many times they laughed and smiled. Their bodies had gotten softer—especially Alfred’s, all the overeating and unhealthy food he consumed in his youth catching up to him. But Arthur welcomed the change, finding him a lot more comfortable to lie against at night.

Before long, it was time to retire, with Peter taking over Arthur’s company and Alfred retiring from the factory just in time for a second world war to start. They sat together in their rocking chairs, watching the television in horror. Arthur made daily check-ups to his children, who had found partners of their own. The first time Arthur saw his first grandchild, he cried the entire time. And each one after that brought on a fresh set of tears.

Arthur was thankful for being able to stay alive long enough to meet all his grandchildren, because on the tenth of April, 1971, fifty-nine years to the day after the _Titanic_ , Arthur Kirkland took his last breath with Alfred and his children by his side, never letting go of his hands. They were wrinkled old men by that time, but their eyes never lost their sparkle. They still had young spirits, although his heart wasn’t able to keep up. Alfred stayed by his side until the nurses forced him to move aside to take away Arthur’s body. Even then, he stayed next to that bed, staring at it as if Arthur were still there.

On the fifteenth of April, 1971, thirty-eight years after Alice’s birth and five days after Arthur’s death, Alfred took his last breath in the same bed as Arthur. He looked up at the ceiling as if Arthur was up there staring down at him, holding out his hand. Alfred reached up his hand, and before his children could force him to put it down to conserve his energy, he exhaled his spirit. It intertwined with his hands, twirling around his arm before bursting out of the hospital and floating up to join Arthur’s.

And those blue eyes, the endless oceans that cried and laughed and screamed and lost and loved, closed for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHA! You thought that last one was the last chapter! Shame on you! Jk jk, to be honest, I thought the last chapter would be the final one, too. But a friend told me that it would be super cool if I had an alternate happy ending where Alfred actually lives, and I always wanted to have this have a happy ending. It was actually one of the things I toiled over during the planning stages of this fic, so I'm glad I had the motivation to write the best of both worlds. 
> 
> You choose which ending you like best :) Both work fine for me, this is sort of a choose-your-adventure thing. Hope you liked this surprise addition. For real though, this is the FINAL chapter. I hope you liked it, and thank you guys for all your support <3


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